Rackhouse 


A  Novel  By 


George  Agnew  Chamberlain 

Author  of 

"HOME"  "WHITE  MAN" 
"COBWEB"  Etc. 


Publishers 
Harper    Sf    Brothers 

New   York  and   London 
MCMXXII 


BOOKS   BY 
GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN 

RACKHOUSE 

HOME 

THROUGH   STAINED  GLASS 

JOHN  BOGARDUS 

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Non-fiction 
Is  MEXICO  WORTH   SAVING? 

In  Preparation 
AFRICAN   HUNTING  AMONG  THE  THONCAS 

Harper  &  Brothers,  Publishers 
Established  1817 


RACKHOUSE 

Copyright,  1922 
By  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 

First  Edition 


RACKHOUSE 


Rackhouse 

A  Novel 

Chapter  I 

"T  DON'T  want  the  stuff,"  said  Norris. 

-••  He  was  standing  against  the  background  of 
his  spacious  quarters  at  the  Royal,  a  straight  figure 
broad  at  the  shoulders,  slim  at  the  hips.  These 
two  points  in  his  physical  make-up  were  especially 
emphasized  by  the  fact  that  he  was  in  full  evening 
dress.  Facing  him  were  two  disreputable  indi 
viduals  who  would  have  looked  absolutely  incon 
gruous  in  such  surroundings  prior  to  the  passage 
of  the  Eighteenth  Amendment.  On  the  floor  mid 
way  between  them  and  Norris  were  four  large 
cartons,  sealed  along  the  edges  and  bound  with 
stout  cord. 

"Don't  want  it?"  said  one  of  the  bootleggers 
in  the  tone  of  one  who  would  like  to  snarl  and 
dares  not.  "What  d'yuh  mean,  don't  want  it? 
Is  it  the  real  stuff  or  ain't  it  the  real  stuff?" 

Norris  understood  the  implication  perfectly. 
The  rules  of  illicit  traffic  in  liquor  are  no  less  rigid 
for  being  unwritten;  they  are  as  stark  as  the 
stripped  skeleton  of  equity.  Cash  on  delivery  pro 
tects  the  seller;  the  buyer  at  any  stage  of  the  game 

3 


4  RACKHOUSE 

has  it  in  his  power  to  wreck  or  jail  the  vender 
without  incriminating  himself.  The  one  possible 
point  of  friction  was  this  matter  of  the  genuine 
ness  of  the  goods.  There  was  no  specific  charge 
for  the  risks  of  delivery,  but  it  was  generally  un 
derstood  that  if  the  liquor  met  specifications  it 
would  not  be  refused. 

Norris  had  no  reason  to  think  that  this  addition 
to  his  private  stock  was  not  as  good  as  previous 
purchases  from  the  same  source,  but  he  had  no 
intention  of  entering  into  explanations.  A  faint 
flush  stained  his  cheeks  at  the  thought  that  cir 
cumstances  had  put  him  in  a  position  of  defense 
before  such  despicable  opponents,  but  his  blue  eyes 
did  not  waver.  They  seemed  to  measure  the  two 
bootleggers  with  a  new  power  of  vision  and  to  find 
them  distastefully  oily. 

"Never  mind  why  I  don't  want  it,"  he  said, 
steadily.  "I  don't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
Pick  it  up  and  get  out." 

They  stared  at  him  angrily,  enraged  more  by 
their  consciousness  of  impotence  than  by  the  mere 
loss  of  profit.  As  they  stooped  to  obey  they 
vented  their  exasperation  in  murmured  scurrilous 
remarks  addressed  ostensibly  to  each  other,  but 
barbed  for  Norris's  ears.  The  innuendo  grew 
plainer  and  louder  as  the  two  men,  heavily  bur 
dened,  disappeared  into  the  shadows  of  the  hall 
way. 

Norris  stepped  forward  and,  reaching  out  with 
his  foot,  slammed  the  entrance  door  shut;  then 
he  turned  and  regarded  himself  in  the  severe 


RACKHOUSE  5 

Colonial  mirror  which  hung  above  a  mahogany 
console.  He  had  bought  neither  the  mirror  nor 
the  table;  he  had  inherited  them.  What  he  saw 
in  the  glass  was  a  personable  young  man,  most 
correctly  dressed,  just  on  the  happy  side  of  thirty, 
clean  shaven,  blue  eyed,  and  with  a  strangely  un- 
lined,  open  countenance  which  was  the  picture  of 
health.  Nevertheless,  anyone  looking  upon  him 
would  have  got  an  impression  not  of  active 
strength,  but  of  unspent  strength,  and  might  have 
deduced  a  sort  of  passive  waste.  His  strength 
was  like  money  lying  idle  in  a  buried  stocking. 

At  the  moment  he  was  thinking  of  himself  with 
a  peculiar  intensity.  He  was  widely  known  among 
his  friends  for  his  engaging  smile  and  effortless 
atmosphere  of  cheer  which  he  was  wont  to  wear  as 
naturally  as  Spring  dons  her  robes  of  green,  but 
just  now  neither  smile  nor  cheer  illumined  the 
gravity  of  his  introspection.  He  was  summing 
himself  up:  Capt.  Roderic  Norris,  darling  of 
society  and  the  gods,  scion  of  an  honored  family, 
clubman,  polo  player,  contented  loafer,  embryonic 
financier,  and — yes — he  might  as  well  face  it — a 
bankrupt ! 

A  sound  in  the  outside  hall  distracted  him.  His 
thoughts  flew  back  to  the  two  bootleggers  and  he 
braced  his  shoulders  instinctively.  How  was  it 
that  he  had  never  before  noticed  how  vile  they 
were?  If  at  that  instant  fate  had  become  vocal 
and  whispered  convincingly  in  his  ear,  "Listen, 
Captain  Norris ;  within  forty-eight  hours  you  will 
be  a  professional  beggar;  within  a  week  you  will 


6  RACKHOUSE 

be  a  public  fraud;  within  two  weeks  you  will  be 
the  right  hand  of  the  king  of  bootleggers;  within 
a  year  you  may  draw  your  check  for  a  million 
dollars,"  his  habitual  smile  would  have  come  back 
to  his  face,  he  would  have  taken  his  service  re 
volver  and  blown  out  his  brains. 

The  sound  in  the  hall  proved  to  be  the  fore 
runner  of  a  group  of  uninvited  but  never  unex 
pected  guests.  Bronk,  Norris's  institutional 
servant,  hurried  by  to  open  the  door  to  them. 
First  entered  a  vociferous  youth,  Richard  Page 
by  name,  who  was  accustomed  to  assuming  the 
van  in  any  enterprise  and  had  a  Congressional 
Medal  lying  around  somewhere  amid  his  tumbled 
socks  and  handkerchiefs.  John  Rockman,  a  club 
man  of  forty,  late  of  the  Foreign  Legion,  entered 
leisurely  behind  Page,  and  after  him  followed 
Shandy  Cullom,  longshoreman  and  one-time  color 
sergeant  in  Norris's  division.  They  were  all 
veterans,  including  Bronk,  and  had  been  shaken 
together  by  circumstances  across  the  seas. 

These  cocktail  parties  in  the  apartment  at  the 
Royal  had  grown  so  frequent  as  to  have  become 
a  matter  of  course.  No  explanations  or  excuses 
were  in  order,  and  within  five  minutes  of  the 
advent  of  the  usual  drinks,  Roderic  Norris  found 
himself  without  knowing  quite  how  he  got  there 
at  the  storm  center  of  a  violent  discussion. 

"I  tell  you,  you're  way  off,  Roddy,"  shouted 
Page,  and  on  the  echo  of  his  words  a  lovely  girl 
swept  into  the  room,  stopped,  glanced  around, 
and  nodded.  She  might  be  twenty-three;  she 


RACKHOUSE  7 

certainly  was  not  twenty-six.  Everything  about 
her — her  self-possession,  easy  carriage,  and  an 
air  of  camaraderie  tempered  in  the  furnace  of 
experience — bore  the  subtle  hall-mark  of  the  well 
bred  at  large  upon  the  world  and  still  a  little 
doubtful  of  the  values  of  emancipation.  Her 
name  was  Ruth  Ardsley.  She  was  exquisitely 
garbed  for  the  theater  and  wore  a  bewitching 
evening  cloak  which  hung  loosely  from  her 
shoulders. 

"I'm  going  to  stop  it,"  she  said,  in  a  pleasantly 
low-pitched  voice  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  arm 
of  a  big  leather  chair.  "I'm  going  to  stop  this 
coming  here,  Roddy,  just  to  save  you  the  trouble 
of  going  all  the  way  down  to  East  Seventeenth 
Street  to  fetch  me.  Calling  for  officers  was  all 
right  when  I  was  in  uniform,  but — somehow — 
Oh,  well.  The  war's  over  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it." 

"You  said  it,  miss,"  confirmed  Cullom,  nodding 
his  head  heavily. 

"Of  course  you  did,"  agreed  Dick  Page,  "but 
that  isn't  the  question  before  the  house.  What  do 
you  think,  Ruth?  Roddy  has  just  said  that  a 
hero — hero,  mind  you — is  generally  made  out  of 
a  fluke.  He  says  that  Tiger  Beggs,  who  went  over 
the  top  like  a  shot  out  of  a  gun  because  he  believed 
somebody  had  to  die  first  just  to  get  the  ball  roll 
ing,  would  never  have  done  it  if  he  hadn't  won  a 
beer  duel  seven  years  before  and  caught  by  a  fluke 
the  taste  of  victory.  Tiger!  Why  Tiger — I 
tell  you  Roddy's  crazy!" 


8  RACKHOUSE 

"A  fluke,"  said  Norris,  with  the  steadily  shin 
ing  smile  which  was  his  most  lovable  and  constant 
characteristic,  "is  a  chance  happening,  and  I  hold 
to  it  that  a  fluke — some  trifling,  unpremeditated 
happening — can  change  not  only  a  man's  future, 
but  his  nature." 

Miss  Ardsley  gave  the  question  so  brusquely 
fired  at  her  by  Page  a  moment's  thoughtful  con 
sideration.  Sincerity  with  her  was  neither  a  pose 
nor  a  religion,  but  just  a  natural  function,  like 
breathing. 

"I  came  in  late  to  class,"  she  said,  presently, 
"but  I  think  I've  caught  up.  You're  wrong, 
Roddy.  Nothing  spasmodic  can  change  our 
natures." 

"Listen  to  that!"  exclaimed  Dick,  joyfully. 

"Well,  just  look  at  us,"  said  Miss  Ardsley,  in 
answer  to  the  question  in  Norris's  smiling 
eyes.  "Shandy  isn't  Sergeant  Cullom,  three 
times  mentioned  in  dispatches.  He's  just  what 
he  was,  longshoreman,  only  gassed  and  out  of 
a  job." 

"You  got  my  number,  miss,"  said  Cullom,  start 
ing  to  leave. 

The  girl  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  detained 
him.  "Sit  down,  Shandy,"  she  commanded,  "and 
listen  to  the  rest  of  it.  Don't  be  touchy.  Look 
at  Bronk.  It  almost  breaks  his  elbow  to  drink 
with  us.  You've  gone  back,  haven't  you,  Bronk?" 

"Whatever  you  say,  miss,"  replied  Bronk,  re 
spectfully. 

"You  see?"  said  Miss  Ardsley,  pleased   and 


RACKHOUSE  9 

amused  at  Bronk's  unconscious  confirmation  of 
her  thesis.  "And  Rocksie,  what  about  you?  What 
are  you?  I'll  tell  you.  You're  the  same  old 
animated  club  window  on  life  you  used  to  be. 
And  you,  Dick,  and  you,  Roddy?  Does  either  of 
you  go  around  with  nightmare  on  your  sleeve? 
None  of  us  wears  his  heart  that  way,  or  his  past. 
We've  gone  back.  We've  got  the  courage  and 
the  fears,  the  prejudices  and  the  same  length  of 
rope  to  hang  ourselves  with,  as  we  used  to  have — 
no  more,  no  less." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Norris,  looking  at  her  with 
a  peculiar  glint  in  his  eyes. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Rockman.  "This  afternoon  I 
was  going  up  the  avenue  and  I  saw  a  broad- 
shouldered  youngster  standing  quite  still  in  the 
shadow  of  the  church  at  Forty-eighth  street.  He 
was  staring  south  with  the  most  extraordinary  ex 
pression  on  his  face.  I  may  be  an  aging  ninny,  but 
he  looked  as  if  he  was  trying  to  see  flags  and  walls 
of  shining  faces." 

"Poor  boy!"  said  Ruth,  her  eyes  suddenly  suf 
fused.  "But  doesn't  that  show  you?  Call  it 
what  you  like,  there's  been  a  slump  in  humanity, 
back  to  dead  level.  If  the  war  couldn't  change 
things,  much  less  a  fluke." 

"A  slump  in  humanity,"  repeated  Rockman,  as 
though  he  wished  to  salvage  the  phrase  and  tie 
his  thoughts  to  it.  "I  wonder  about  that,  too. 
I  passed  the  boy  without  waking  him  up,  and  a 
few  blocks  further  on  a  great  house  reminded  me 
of  the  day  we  got  the  requisition  for  fourteen 


io  RACKHOUSE 

wounded  to  see  the  parade  and  would  we  please 
send  only  men  with  the  left  arm  gone." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Miss  Ardsley;  but  Dick  Page 
laughed  aloud. 

"I  remember !"  he  cried.  uWe  had  to  fake  half 
of  'em  so  as  not  to  lose  the  choice  seats." 

"Horrible  woman!"  murmured  Ruth. 

"Oh  no,  she  wasn't!"  said  Rockman,  quickly. 
"I  went  with  that  detail  and  I  know.  She  was  a 
winner." 

"A  winner?"  repeated  Miss  Ardsley,  with 
quirked  lips. 

"Well,"  qualified  Rockman,  "she  wasn't  pretty, 
exactly,  but  she  was  lovely  and  youngish  and 
alive,  and  her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  could  cry  a 
barrel  to  another  woman's  pint,  only  they  never 
had,  and  they  never  would  because  she  wouldn't 
let  them.  She  greeted  the  detail  a  bit  breathlessly, 
and  this  is  what  she  said:  'Boys,  I  wanted  you  all 
to  be  alike  so  I  could  love  you  collectively.  I 
wouldn't  dare  to  see  you  singly.  One  by  one  I'd 
fall  in  love  with  each  of  you,  and  it  would  hurt 
us  too  much.' ' 

"And  they  fell,"  murmured  Page. 

"They  did,"  said  Rockman.  "They  loved  her 
at  once  and  told  her  so.  They  said  it  wasn't  fair 
to  be  loved  wholesale  in  return,  and  one  suggested 
drawing  lots  for  an  elimination,  another  called 
for  cards  for  a  freeze  out,  and  a  third  said,  'What 
about  the  captain,  here?  He's  got  both  his  flip 
pers.'  She  gave  me  one  look  and  it  was  on  her 
lips  to  say,  'Oh,  he  may  stay.'  But  she  was  all 


RACKHOUSE  n 

heart,  and  what  wasn't  heart,  was  wit.  She 
dropped  her  eyes  and  said,  'Since  the  captain  has 
chosen  to  be  different,  he  must  go  at  once/  and 
I  went,  singing  out  loud." 

uOh,  you  women!"  chanted  Page. 

"Oh,  you  men!"  countered  Miss  Ardsley. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Rockman,  leaning  for 
ward.  "Every  time  a  man  tries  to  pull  a  woman 
out  of  a  hole  in  some  other  woman's  estimation, 
he  pushes  the  dirt  in  with  both  feet  and  buries 
her  alive." 

Miss  Ardsley  accepted  the  rebuke.  "Rocksie, 
you  mean  that,  and  I  can  love  almost  anyone  for 
just  meaning  what  they  say.  I  was  wrong.  Just 
as  she  was,  you  worship  that  woman,  don't  you? 
All  of  you?  For  a  little  canter  in  kindness,  she's 
still  remembered  when  many  a  plugging  dray 
horse  is  already  forgotten.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it,  Ruth,"  admitted 
Rockman." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ruth,  as  though  to  complete 
her  apology,  "here  goes.  Hurrah  for  her,  who 
ever  she  was." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  calls  for  a  round,"  sug 
gested  Page.  "Eh,  Roddy?" 

Norris  nodded  and  they  sat  in  silence  while 
Bronk  prepared  the  cocktails,  but  when  Rockman 
took  his  glass  from  the  tray  he  spilled  a  drop  or 
two  and  said:  "A  libation  to  the  winners  of 
hearts.  We  don't  know  why  they  are,  what  they 
are,  or  where  they  come  from.  Nobody  can 
define  their  hold,  but  we  can  all  drink  to  them." 


12  RACKHOUSE 

Since  giving  his  definition  of  a  fluke  Roderic 
Norris  had  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion,  but 
now  he  seemed  to  half  awake  from  his  absorption. 
"I'm  not  so  sure  of  the  mystery,"  he  said,  as  he 
set  his  emptied  glass  aside.  "It  seems  to  me  it's 
a  question  of  generosity  or  of  limitations.  The 
woman  who  can  say,  'Here  goes  honor,  riches, 
pride,  and  all  the  past  for  you — for  you  alone,' 
and  make  you  believe  it,  has  always  had  the  edge 
on  the  hearts  of  men,  even  if  she  snatched  back 
the  lot  with  her  next  breath." 

"Why,  Roddy!"  cried  Miss  Ardsley,  staring  at 
him,  frank  amazement  in  her  eyes. 

He  met  her  gaze  steadily  with  the  most  imper 
sonal  look  he  had  ever  given  her.  It  was  the  look 
of  a  man  whose  thoughts  are  deep  in  his  mind 
and  far  away  from  the  tongue.  She  turned  from 
him  with  a  puzzled  expression  and  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

"Whatever  it  was  that  prepared  Tiger  Beggs 
to  be  a  hero,"  she  said,  "or  that — that  woman  to 
move  for  a  moment  from  behind  her  screen  of 
busyness  into  your  hearts,  it's  gone.  I'm  unhappy. 
Shandy  is  unhappy.  All  of  us  who  were  in  the 
war  or  even  on  its  edges  have  stopped  living, 
quite  suddenly.  It  isn't  only  that  we're  forgotten. 
It's  something  even  deeper  than  that — a  feeling 
that  the  sources  of  compassion  have  dried  up." 

"But  they  haven't,"  said  Rockman. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Ruth,  after  a 
pause. 

"What  I  said,"  replied  Rockman.   "The  sources 


RACKHOUSE  13 

of  compassion  haven't  dried  up  and  we're  not 
really  forgotten.  What's  lacking  is  an  impulse. 
Listen.  Every  heart  has  a  keynote  to  which  it 
rings  true.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Ruth. 

"Well,"  continued  Rockman,  "the  heart  of  the 
public  is  the  spit  of  every  other  heart.  Apply  the 
formula  for  touching  its  secret  spring  and  its 
locked  doors  will  fall  wide  open,  just  as  they  did 
for  one  drive  after  another  during  the  war." 

"Rocksie,  do  you  believe  that?"  asked  Miss 
Ardsley,  eagerly. 

"I  do,"  said  Rockman,  smiling  at  her  fervor. 

"You  really  believe,"  continued  the  girl,  "that 
there  is  a  formula  which,  if  it  were  applied,  would 
make  the  country  or  just  this  big  city  think  of  the 
wounded,  of  the  leftovers  of  fate,  the  strays,  the 
misfits — all  the  forgotten  and  the  lost?" 

"Surely,"  said  Rockman,  nodding. 

"Oh,"  murmured  Ruth,  fervently,  "if  only  you 
could  tell  us  what  it  is — that  formula!" 

"But  I  can,"  declared  Rockman. 

"You  can!"  cried  Miss  Ardsley,  sitting  sud 
denly  erect. 

"Of  course,"  said  Rockman,  easily.  "Just 
make  the  public  laugh,  weep,  and  wonder  and 
you'll  find  out  mighty  quickly  whether  the  sources 
of  compassion  are  dried  up  or  not." 

"Please,  Rocksie,  don't  tease  me,"  said  Ruth, 
earnestly.  "Make  it  plainer.  Please  do." 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Rockman,  "I'm  not  trying 
to  tease  you.  I  tell  you  that  if  you'll  take  humor, 


14  RACKHOUSE 

pathos,  and  mystery  in  equal  parts,  mix  thor 
oughly,  and  serve  on  the  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue 
and  any  street,  you'll  split  the  compassionate  heart 
of  this  city  wide  open." 

Miss  Ardsley  jumped  up,  discarded  her  cloak, 
and  stood  displayed  in  all  her  diaphanous  beauty. 

"You  boys,"  she  murmured,  "you  don't  know 
what  this  means  to  me.  Sometimes  I  stand  like 
this  before  the  mirror  and  I  say  to  myself,  'You've 
worn  a  uniform,  you've  been  smeared  with  grease, 
you've — you've  told  a  truck  driver  to — to  go  to 
hell,'  and  what  happens?  I  seem  to  hear  the 
whole  world  rumbling,  'Oh,  forget  it!'  and  I  feel 
all  crumpled  up  inside.  If  I  feel  like  that,  what 
about  the  others — the  thousands  of  Shandy  Cul- 
loms  and  Dick  Pages?  And  if  there's  a  formula 
that  will  just  set  my  heart  right  again  with  my 
world — the  world  you  and  I  have  got  to  live  in, 
Rocksie — why,  I'm  going  out  to  find  it." 

Watching  her  as  she  paced  up  and  down  with 
hands  locked  before  her,  Norris,  Rockman,  and 
Page  were  inclined  to  smile  at  her  ardor,  but  they 
were  arrested  by  the  extraordinary  expression  on 
the  faces  of  Cullom  and  Bronk,  whose  eyes  were 
filled  with  the  unquestioning  allegiance  which 
lights  up  the  vision  of  all  those  who  rally  blindly 
to  lost  causes  by  reason  of  sheer  faith  in  a  friend. 

"I've  got  it!"  cried  Ruth,  suddenly,  throwing 
up  her  head  and  turning  on  them  a  radiantly 
eager  smile.  "Listen.  A  one-armed  officer  in 
uniform.  That's  pathos,  isn't  it?  Fit  him  out 
with  an  old  hurdy-gurdy  and  a  monkey,  the  eter- 


RACKHOUSE  15 

nal  symbol  of  humor;  make  him  wear  a  black 
mask  for  mystery;  and  place  the  lot  on  any  cor 
ner  of  any  street.  Oh,  Rocksie — Dick — don't  you 
think  that's  the  answer?  Oh,  Roddy " 

"Why,  Ruth!"  cried  Norris,  the  smile  on  his 
face  wavering.  "What's  come  over  you?" 

"Wait,"  said  Rockman,  holding  out  one  hand 
and  staring  intently.  On  his  face,  too,  the  smile 
wavered  and  then  faded  into  gravity.  "Who 
knows?"  he  continued,  presently,  in  a  voice  free 
of  cynicism.  "Once  I  did  a  mad  thing.  I've 
never  regretted  it.  It  was  long  ago  and  it's  grown 
and  grown  so  that  when  I  look  back  at  youth — my 
youth — I  see  just  that  one  thing.  I'd  like  to  do 
another — even  in  partnership  or  by  proxy. 
There's  nothing  to  prevent  us  from  staging  Ruth's 
plan  and  there's  just  a  chance — the  short  end  of 
a  long  bet — that  it  would  work." 

Norris  stared  at  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  then  smiled  meaningly  on  Dick  Page.  "It 
would  be  easy  to  pick  the  monkey,"  he  said,  flip 
pantly,  "but  who's  going  to  be  the  goat — the 
masked  officer?" 

"Roddy!"  cried  Ruth,  throwing  him  such  a 
genuinely  hurt  look  that  he  quickly  dropped  his 
eyes. 

"You,  of  course,"  said  Page,  soberly,  to 
Norris. 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Rockman. 

"They're  framing  you,  Cap,"  murmured  Cul- 
lom.  "Better  duck." 

Ruth  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  Norris's   arm 

2 


16  RACKHOUSE 

and  looked  earnestly  into  his  face.  "You,  of 
course,  Roddy,"  she  pleaded. 

"Why  'of  course'  ?"  he  asked,  quietly,  glancing 
from  one  to  another  of  the  company. 

"Because  you  are  you,  Roddy,"  said  Rockman, 
promptly.  "Because  you  are  money  and  leisure 
and  position  and  charm  and  everything  that  is 
unassailable.  The  people  high  up  would  stand  for 
it  from  you  and  from  you  only.  So  would  the 
world — our  world,  I  mean — if  it  came  to  a  show 
down  and  you  were  found  out." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Norris,  with  a  snap  of  his 
fingers.  "That's  neither  here  nor  there.  Do  you 
people  mean  it?  Would  you  really  "jcant  me  to 
go  through  with  such  a  fool  frolic?" 

"I  do,  Roddy,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Ruth. 
"Only,  it  isn't — it  mustn't  be  a  frolic." 

Norris  glanced  around  his  luxurious  quarters. 
He  and  his  guests  were  grouped  in  the  drawing- 
room;  next  to  it  was  an  oval  interlude  with  desk 
and  shelves  well  stocked  with  books  of  somber 
binding.  Beyond  the  oval,  seen  through  arches, 
was  the  spacious  dining  room. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  he  asked,  with  a  gesture, 
"they'd  allow  a  hurdy-gurdy  in  the  elevator?  And 
if  they  did,  would  they  keep  it  secret?  When 
folks  are  a  bit  excited,  there's  only  one  way  to 
expose  an  absurd  proposition,  and  that  is  to  take 
the  first  step.  Now  just  let's  start.  Where  do 
we  begin?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Page.  "Steps  number  one  to 
five.  I've  just  shut  up  my  garage  apartment  in 


RACKHOUSE  17 

Smudge  Alley.  It  was  too  lonely  for  a  singleton 
and  too  small  for  a  twosome.  There's  no  ele 
vator — not  even  a  sill.  It  has  an  intake  on  the 
alley  and  a  small  outlet  to  a  side  street.  It's  made 
to  order.  That  takes  care  of  steps  one  to  five. 
Bring  on  the  next." 

"Uniform,"  said  Norris,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause.  "I'd  be  arrested." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Rockman.  "I'll  fix 
the  red  tape." 

"Why  bother?"  said  Cullom.  "I'll  fix  the 
cops." 

They  laughed,  all  but  Ruth.  Her  eyes  were 
still  fixed  on  Norris's  face.  "Oh,  Roddy!"  she 
said,  earnestly,  "I  wish  I  could  be  you!" 

He  glanced  at  her  with  a  teasing,  half-banter 
ing  smile.  "I  wish  you  could,  my  dear." 

For  a  moment  he  stared  before  him.  His  face, 
usually  so  animated,  slowly  assumed  a  masklike 
expression.  What  did  they  think,  these  people? 
he  wondered.  That  he  was  puzzling  out  the  little 
details  of  a  hair-brained  masquerade  and  weigh 
ing  trifling  consequences  on  a  letter  scale?  Prob 
ably.  An  impulse  welled  up  in  him  to  tell  them  the 
whole  truth.  Why  not  shout  out:  "You  think 
I'm  still  the  gilded  child  of  fortune,  do  you? 
Well,  I'm  broke — dead  broke — flat  as  a  flat  tire !" 
But  something  stopped  him,  something  vague  yet 
more  definit/  than  the  natural  shrinking  one  feels 
at  making  a  public  announcement  of  cataclysmic 
poverty.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  the  men  of  the 
party  and,  with  an  unconscious  exclusion  of 


iS  RACKHOUSE 

Miss  Ardsley,  said  to  them,  "I'll  go  through 
with  it." 

"Bully  for  you,  Roddy,"  said  Rockman  in  a 
quiet  tone.  "Of  course,  you  and  all  the  rest  of 
us  must  realize  that  everything  depends  on  abso 
lute  mystery.  We  can  be  for  you,  but  we  can't  be 
with  you." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Norris.  "Dick's  apartment 
is  just  the  thing.  Now  what  about  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  and  the  monkey?" 

"Forget  all  that,  Roddy,"  said  Page.  "Let 
Bronk  get  you  a  mask  and  pack  your  kit.  Leave 
the  rest  to  Shandy  and  me.  By  noon  to-morrow 
you'll  get  the  keys  to  the  front  and  back  doors  of 
my  hole  in  the  wall,  and  inside  you'll  find  every 
darned  thing  you  need,  down  to  and  including  the 
hand  organ  and  the  monkey — eating  a  banana  to 
keep  him  happy.  The  next  morning,  early,  you 
can  start  the  frontal  attack  on  the  public  heart. 
Now  let's  drink  one  last  Martini  to  success  and 
turn  you  and  Ruth  loose  to  what's  left  of  your 
theater  party." 

Bronk  whispered  to  his  master. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Norris.  "There's  no  more 
gin." 

"No  gin  !"  cried  Dick.    "You  piker  !" 

"Sorry,"  repeated  Norris,  absently.  "Bronk, 
there's  Scotch  and  soda,  isn't  there?  Bring  it." 

"Not  for  me,  old  man,"  said  Rockman  rising. 
"I'm  off." 

"Oh,  well.  Same  here,"  said  Page.  "Wait  for 
me,  Rocksie.  Come  along  Shandy." 


RACKHOUSE  19 

"I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute,"  said  Cullom. 
He  watched  Bronk  go  out  for  the  Scotch,  waited 
until  Page  had  joined  Rockman  in  the  hall,  and 
then  approached  Norris,  blustering  a  little  to 
cover  his  embarrassment.  "Cap,"  he  asked,  "can 
you  let  me  have  another  five  spot?" 

Norris  thrust  his  hand  instinctively  into  his 
pocket,  paused,  drew  it  out  empty,  and  laughed 
nervously.  Collum  did  not  wait  for  an  expla 
nation.  Flushing,  he  made  hurriedly  for  the 
door. 

Ruth  stared  at  Norris,  then  at  Shandy's  dis 
appearing  form,  snatched  up  her  beaded  bag,  and 
called:  "Shandy!  Shandy!"  He  did  not  return. 
She  whirled  on  Norris.  "Why  did  you  do  that?" 
she  asked. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  turning  empty  pockets 
inside  out  and  grinned  at  her. 

"You  mean  you  haven't  any  money  with  you?" 

He  nodded. 

"What  about  the  theater  tickets  for  to-night?" 

"Charge." 

"And  the  taxi?" 

"Club." 

"And  the  dinner?" 

"Sign." 

"And  the  tips?" 

"Borrow  from  the  head  waiter." 

"At  least,  not  from  me,"  concluded  Ruth,  icily. 
With  her  bag  she  had  picked  up  her  cloak;  now 
she  threw  them  both  on  a  chair  and,  turning  to 
face  Norris  again,  studied  his  face  gravely. 


20  RACKHOUSE 

"Roddy,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "two  or  three 
times  to-night,  I've  wondered  who  you  are.  Of 
course,  I  haven't  forgotten  that  our  grandmothers 
played  together  in  Gramercy  Park — I  don't  mean 
that.  I  mean  one  or  two  things  that  you've  said. 
Especially  one.  I've — I've  wondered." 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Norris.  "I've  been  won 
dering  about  you,  too.  I  always  wonder  about 
you." 

Bronk  entered  with  tray,  decanter,  and  glasses, 
glanced  around  the  all  but  empty  room,  and 
promptly  withdrew. 

"Do  you?"  asked  Ruth.  "What  do  you 
wonder?" 

"Lots  of  things,"  said  Norris.  "Who  are  you  ?" 

"Are  you  making  fun  of  me,  Roddy?" 

"No." 

"You  really  mean  you  feel  that  somehow  you 
don't  know  me,  just  as  I  feel  to-night  that — that 
I  don't  know  you  ?" 

Norris  nodded,  a  veiled  look  in  his  eyes,  as 
though  her  loveliness  were  slowly  blinding  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  know  you,"  he  said  almost  ab 
sently.  "I  want  to  love  you." 

Ruth  half  turned  her  body  from  him  in  a 
startled,  instinctive  movement,  but  kept  her  puz 
zled  eyes  fastened  on  his  face.  "Again,"  she  said. 
"That's  the  third  time  this  evening  your  words 
have  puzzled  me — like — like  a  stranger  speaking 
with  a  familiar  voice — a  borrowed  voice."  She 
hung  her  head  for  an  instant  and  then  threw  it 
back.  "Roddy,"  she  asked,  with  an  odd,  trem- 


RACKHOUSE  21 

bling  quality  in  her  tone,  "do  you  want  me  to  love 
you,  too?" 

It  was  Norris's  turn  to  stare.  "Why — of 
course!"  he  answered,  lightly. 

"What  an  answer!"  cried  Miss  Ardsley. 

"Ruth,"  said  Norris,  hurriedly,  "we've  been 
lifted  a  bit  out  of  ourselves  to-night.  I  don't 
know  quite  what  it  is.  Perhaps  it's  you — the  way 
you've  talked — the  way  we  caught  fire  from  you. 
Perhaps  it's  something  that  has  been  worrying 
me.  But  don't  let's  spoil  our  last  evening." 

"Our  last  evening?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  for  a  time,  of  course,"  said  Norris, 
quickly.  "Just  while  this  mad  hurdy-gurdy  game 
is  on.  Please.  Come  back  to  earth.  Let's  snatch 
a  sandwich  and  run  for  the  theater." 

"The  theater?"  repeated  Miss  Ardsley. 
"Hardly.  Roddy,  you  can't  carry  me  along  on 
credit — like — like  a  stock  flotation.  It  may  have 
been  just  thoughtlessness  on  your  part — easy-go 
ing  carelessness  with  the  girl  you're  going  to 
marry — but  to  me  it's  more  than  that.  It's — it's 
a  slight." 

For  the  first  time  in  their  life-long  acquaintance, 
Norris  appeared  to  make  an  effort  of  smiling. 
"I  know,"  he  said.  "I  don't  blame  you.  Please 
forgive  me  this  once  and  do  let's  go." 

"No!  No!"  cried  Ruth.  "What's  the  theater? 
Isn't  it  a  trick  to  get  ourselves  outside  ourselves 
and  away?  To  sit  in  abstract  peace,  entranced  by 
a  mimic  struggle?  Well,  I'm  outside  myself  now 
and  so  are  you.  I'm  in  the  air  of  these  rooms  and 


22  RACKHOUSE 

it  seems  to  quiver.  I  look  down.  I  say,  'That's 
Roderic  Norris.  How  strange  he  looks.  Some 
thing  is  alive  within  him,  struggling.  And  that's 
Ruth  Ardsley.  How  her  eyes  shine!  How  white 
are  her  arms!  How  her  heart  must  be  beating 
to  make  her  breast  rise  and  fall  so  fast !'  ' 

"Ruth!"  cried  Norris,  peremptorily.  "Stop 
that.  Let's  go." 

Miss  Ardsley's  shoulders  suddenly  drooped  and 
she  laughed  nervously.  "How  strange,"  she  said, 
"to  be  watching — waiting — for  something  that 
doesn't  happen.  By  the  way,  Roddy.  You 
haven't  kissed  me  to-night." 

"That's  soon  put  straight,"  he  said,  with  evi 
dent  relief.  He  advanced  to  where  she  was  stand 
ing  rather  rigidly,  placed  his  hands  on  her  bare 
shoulders,  and  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  mouth. 

"No!"  cried  Ruth,  pushing  him  away.  "Stand 
there.  Wait." 

Her  eyes  and  her  body  seemed  to  melt  until 
they  attained  a  uniform  fluidity  bewilderingly  at 
variance  with  the  rigid  pose  of  only  a  moment  be 
fore.  She  dropped  her  arms  to  her  sides  and 
opened  them  slowly  in  a  backward  gesture  of 
surrender. 

"Roddy!"  she  whispered.     "What  was  it  you 
said — 'Honor — pride — all  the  past — for  you!'  ' 
With  upthrown  head,  she  hurled  herself  into  his 
arms. 

He  caught  her  given  body,  crushed  it,  lifted  it 
against  him.  "Ruth!"  he  whispered.  "Sweet 
heart!" 


RACKHOUSE  23 

Face  all  but  touching  face,  they  opened  their 
eyes.  Seen  so  closely  the  human  eye  becomes  an 
infinite  pool  of  light,  a  mysterious  firmament. 
They  stared,  lost  themselves  in  untraveled  regions. 
Their  emotions  welled  up  toward  the  inevitable 
kiss  of  triumph,  but  suddenly  a  quiver  passed 
through  Norris's  body.  He  seemed  to  awake  into 
himself  alone.  He  drew  Ruth's  arms  from  around 
his  neck  and,  pushing  her  from  him,  stood  with 
fallen  head,  still  holding  her  hands.  His  denial 
of  her  was  unmistakable. 

For  an  instant  she  stared  at  him  piteously,  un 
believingly;  then,  angry  and  wholly  ashamed,  she 
snatched  her  hands  away,  whirled,  and  caught  up 
her  cloak  and  bag. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.  "Oh!"  and  rushed  toward 
the  door. 

"Ruth!"  cried  Norris.  "Wait.  Listen.  You 
must  listen." 

She  turned  on  him,  unhearing,  her  face  con 
vulsed.  "Marry  you!"  she  cried.  "After  that? 
Never!  Don't  you  dare  to  follow  me."  The 
door  opened,  slammed;  she  was  gone. 

Norris  stood  where  she  had  left  him.  Mo 
ments  passed,  but  he  did  not  move.  Drawn  by 
the  silence,  Bronk  appeared,  stared  at  his  master, 
and  then  noiselessly  busied  himself  with  setting 
the  room  to  rights. 

"There's  still  no  gin,  sir,"  he  reminded,  pres 
ently. 

A  slow  smile  dawned  on  Norris's  immobile  fea 
tures.  "No,"  he  said,  "so  there  isn't.  Bronk," 


24  RACKHOUSE 

he  added,  taking  a  last  cigarette  from  his  case, 
"it's  a  strange  thing  that  when  we  are  most 
strapped  we  dismiss  first  the  things  we  love  best. 
Ever  think  of  that  ?  The  biggest  things — the  things 
that  are  more  soul  than  body,  spirit  than  matter 
— go  first.  We  think  of  them  as  luxuries — lux 
uries  of  the  mind  and  heart.  We  cling  longest 
to  the  most  selfish  and  sordid — warmth,  food, 
tobacco,  and  a  place  to  sleep." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bronk,  perfunctorily. 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  followed  me,"  said 
Norris,  gravely.  "You're  fired." 

"Fired,  sir?"  gasped  Bronk,  galvanized  sud 
denly  into  a  bulging-eyed  stare.  "Did — did  you 
say  'fired,'  sir?" 

"I  did,"  replied  Norris,  with  a  level,  unswerving 
look.  "Get  out  of  here." 


Chapter  II 

ON  the  following  morning  Norris  awoke  and 
gradually  perceived  that  signs  of  broad  day 
had  struggled  past  the  drawn  curtains  of  his  bed 
room.  He  had  evidently  slept  well  and  late,  as 
men  who  await  the  scaffold  at  dawn  are  supposed 
to  be  inclined  to  do.  He  shouted  loudly  for  Bronk 
and  there  was  no  answer;  then  he  remembered. 
He  arose,  bathed,  dressed,  foraged  an  ample  cold 
breakfast,  and  passed  into  the  living  room  in 
search  of  a  cigarette.  On  the  center  table  beside 
his  hat  and  stick  lay  a  black  mask. 

Norris  picked  it  up  and  examined  it  curiously. 
Moments  passed  and  he  still  stood  staring  at  the 
trifle  in  his  hand.  First  he  thought  of  Bronk,  his 
ancient  servant,  and  of  the  bulging-eyed  look  of 
unbelief  with  which  he  had  received  the  blow  of 
dismissal.  The  ageless  institution  had  evidently 
taken  the  words  so  brutally  spoken  to  heart  and 
gone;  but  before  he  had  departed  he  had  thought 
of  the  one  task  it  might  embarrass  his  master  to 
accomplish  for  himself  and  had  procured  this 
emblem  of  mystery. 

From  that  instant  the  mask  itself  absorbed 
Norris's  contemplation.  Endowed  with  a  tradi 
tion  of  highwaymanry  and  murder,  coquetry  and 


26  RACKHOUSE 

romance,  which  stretched  back  through  the  annals 
of  men  into  the  very  shadow  of  the  beginnings 
of  all  plots,  counterplots,  and  lawless  enter 
prise,  it  lay  black  and  small  upon  his  hand,  but 
grew  in  his  eyes  as  though  by  an  emanation  of 
accumulated  associations  until  it  seemed  to  fill 
the  apartment  with  a  velvety  gloom  which  de 
fied  the  pale  sunlight.  He  fitted  it  over  his 
face  and  stared  at  himself  in  the  mirror  over 
the  mantelpiece.  Immediately  he  was  aware 
of  an  extraordinary  sensation  of  security  and 
withdrawal,  of  a  clandestine  outlook  upon  a 
severed  world. 

Doubts  fell  from  him  so  fast  that  his  spirit 
felt  stark  and  denuded.  He  was  not  a  new  man, 
but  he  had  found  the  road  by  which  he  might 
come  for  the  first  time  upon  himself  and  thereby 
discover  that  which  all  of  us  are,  yet  seldom  know. 
All  the  world  wears  a  mask,  the  child  at  illicit 
play,  the  youth  at  his  dreaming,  the  man  at  work, 
the  woman  in  or  out  of  love.  Only  by  covering 
the  eternal  bluff  of  the  human  countenance  with 
a  bit  of  black  satin  can  man  escape  the  sustaining 
pillars  of  deportment  and  by  unrevealment  stand 
revealed  unto  himself! 

He  took  off  the  black  mask,  folded  it  slowly, 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  then,  with  the  quick  turn 
of  a  decision  reached,  went  to  a  wardrobe,  drew 
out  a  capacious  kit  bag  and  packed  in  it  his  service 
uniform,  trench  coat,  and  a  number  of  lesser  neces 
sities.  He  had  scarcely  finished  when  Dick  Page 
appeared,  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  shining 


RACKHOUSE  27 

with  the  satisfaction  of  accomplishment  swiftly 
performed. 

"Here  you  are,  Roddy,"  he  said,  dangling  a 
pair  of  keys.  "All  dinkie-dunky-lorum."  Then 
his  eyes  actually  perceived  Norris's  face  for  the 
first  time.  "What's  up?"  he  asked,  curiously. 
"Did  you  have  a  white  night,  as  the  Frenchies  say, 
or  are  you  funking  it?" 

"Neither,"  said  Norris,  quietly,  taking  the  keys. 
"Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Page,  relieved.  "You 
look  a  bit  white  around  the  gills.  Perhaps  it's 
just  because  I  never  saw  your  face  without  its 
smile  before.  Looks  kind  of  naked." 

Bronk  hurried  in.  He  seemed  to  be  still 
stunned,  still  held  by  the  daze  of  the  catastrophic 
climax  of  the  evening  before.  He  stared  around 
the  familiar  rooms  and,  as  though  ashamed  that 
Page  should  be  a  witness  to  the  inexplicable  part 
ing  with  Norris,  proffered  his  keys  of  stewardship 
in  dead  silence. 

"Keep  them,"  said  Norris,  shortly.  "You've 
got  to  sleep  somewhere." 

Refusing  Page's  escort  even  to  the  back  en 
trance  of  the  Royal,  Norris  walked  a  few  paces 
from  that  narrow  portal  before  hailing  a  passing 
cab  and  directing  it  to  the  garage  apartment  in 
Smudge  Alley.  He  entered  his  new  quarters  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
dropped  his  bag,  stretched  his  arms  as  one  who 
awakes  from  a  cramping  sleep,  and  then,  dodging 
the  organ  which  loomed  incongruously  in  the  re- 


28  RACKHOUSE 

stricted  space,  hurled  himself  full  length  on  a 
broad  couch.  A  small  monkey  caught,  as  Page 
had  predicted,  in  the  very  act  of  eating  a  banana, 
leaped  up  and  down  in  chattering  wrath  at  the 
disturbance,  rattling  his  diminutive  chain.  Norris 
observed  his  antics  in  unsmiling  silence. 

"You  are  a  monkey,"  he  said,  presently,  aloud. 
"Everything  you  feel  is  written  on  your  face  and 
the  outside  of  your  body.  When  you're  sad,  you 
cry;  when  you're  cold,  you  shiver;  and  when 
you're  peeved  you  jump  up  and  down  and  make 
a  hell  of  a  racket.  That's  why  you  are  the  joke 
of  the  world.  People  who  tell  nothing  are 
never  ridiculous." 

Partially  calmed  and  apparently  interested  by 
this  flow  of  words,  the  monkey  stood  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  hurdy-gurdy  and  made  a  long  stutter 
ing  answer.  Norris  appeared  to  listen  attentively 
to  the  chatter,  nodding  his  head  from  time  to 
time,  but  finally  interrupted.  "That's  all  true,  of 
course,"  he  admitted,  "but  it's  beside  the  point. 
I  didn't  say  that  people  who  tell  nothing  are  in 
trinsically  better  than  those  who  tell  everything, 
or  half  as  lovable.  I  merely  said  they  are  never 
ridiculous.  Incidentally,  it's  the  ambition  of  all 
the  common  ruck  of  mankind  to  avoid  being 
laughed  at.  I  am  a  very  common  mortal.  You 
have  given  me  a  valuable  pointer.  I  shall  prac 
tice  impassivity." 

He  arose,  made  a  leisurely  tour  of  the  miniature 
apartment,  opened  the  rear  and  front  doors  to 
study  the  relative  merits  of  the  two  exits,  closed 


RACKHOUSE  29 

them,  and  then  unpacked  his  bag,  changed  to 
uniform,  adjusted  the  mask,  and  put  on  his  service 
cap  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hold  the  disguise  firmly 
in  place.  Thus  accoutered,  he  posed  before  an 
ancient  long  French  mirror  which  was  fitted  in  a 
narrow  panel  on  the  south  wall  and,  turning  the 
organ  so  as  to  bring  it  into  the  picture,  practiced 
salutes  and  impassivity  for  an  hour.  The  monkey 
continued  voluble  and  from  time  to  time  Norris 
would  answer  him  in  so  matter-of-fact  a  tone  and 
at  such  length  that  the  small  beast  finally  sur 
rendered  as  a  child  would  have  done  under  equally 
subtle  treatment,  and  suddenly  thrust  out  a  paw 
to  shake  hands.  The  overture  was  accepted  sol 
emnly.  From  that  moment  they  understood  each 
other;  they  were  friends. 

That  whole  afternoon  Norris  devoted  to  sink 
ing  himself  into  the  part  he  was  to  play.  When 
evening  came  he  did  not  go  out,  but  prepared  him 
self  a  meal  from  the  provisions  laid  in  by  Page. 
After  eating,  he  sat  and  smoked,  communing  with 
himself  in  silence  and  with  the  monkey  aloud. 
Then  he  slept  fitfully,  and  at  the  first  full  light 
of  the  winter  morning,  arose,  made  his  prepara 
tions,  threw  open  the  front  door,  and  trundled 
the  organ  out  into  the  echoing  empty  street.  Just 
there  he  got  his  first  surprise.  The  old-fashioned 
hurdy-gurdy  (and  who,  indeed,  has  ever  seen  a 
late  model!)  was  not  mounted  on  ball  bearings 
nor  was  it  a  feather-weight.  It  was  a  man's  load 
for  two  arms,  let  alone  one,  but  it  never  occurred 
to  Norris  to  jettison  Ruth's  note  of  pathos  and 


30  RACKHOUSE 

free  his  other  hand.  On  the  contrary,  he  wel 
comed  the  genuine  toil  of  his  self-assumed  task. 
It  would  give  him  something  elemental  to  think 
about,  to  worry  over,  and  to  conquer. 

Once  away  from  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  the  garage  apartment,  he  began  to  play  the 
organ.  Few  people  were  abroad  in  the  side 
streets,  and  fewer  still  were  curious  enough  to 
throw  open  windows  to  see  what  manner  of  indi 
vidual  was  rash  enough  so  to  rush  the  established 
season  for  hurdy-gurdies.  But  once  he  began  to 
cross  the  streams  of  office-bound  workers  he  was 
amazed  at  the  commotion  his  advent  caused. 
People  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  ghost,  smiled, 
turned  to  look  again,  and  often  came  back  to 
deposit  a  coin,  more  with  the  air  of  paying  cash 
for  a  new  sensation  than  of  charity.  Here  was 
something  new — astonishingly  original. 

By  late  afternoon  the  Black  Mask  was  the  talk 
of  the  town.  Noon  editions  had  announced  his 
advent  in  little  more  than  a  startled  headline  but 
later,  the  first  evening  issues  made  much  of  the 
meager  facts  their  reporters  had  been  able  to 
gather.  The  newspapers  reacted  much  as  did  the 
public;  first  they  paid  tribute  and  then  they  asked 
questions.  They  extolled  in  extravagant  terms 
the  genius  displayed  in  the  combined  object  lesson 
and  appeal  presented  by  the  little  retinue,  declared 
it  daring,  pitiful,  and  intriguing,  and  then  set  to 
work  to  sap  the  secrecy  which  was  its  foundation 
and  strength.  Who  was  the  man  behind  the  mask? 

Even  with  his  empty  left  sleeve  pinned  into  the 


RACKHOUSE  31 

pocket  of  his  overcoat,  the  unknown  showed  a 
fine  breadth  of  shoulder  and  stood  very  erect. 
His  right  hand  turned  the  organ  handle,  which  it 
would  release  for  an  instant  to  acknowledge  each 
contribution  with  the  quick  snap  of  an  expert 
salute.  This  was  his  only  gesture,  the  one  indica 
tion  that  he  saw,  felt,  or  heard  the  actions  of  the 
people  about  him.  The  crowd  was  so  great  at  times 
that  it  took  two  good-natured  policemen  to  keep 
it  moving;  at  others,  it  dwindled  to  a  thin  line, 
with  even  an  occasional  break.  It  was  in  these 
instants  of  respite  that  the  Black  Mask  would  stop 
the  monotonous  music,  lean  forward  and  lift  the 
hinged  door  at  the  back  of  the  hurdy-gurdy,  while 
the  monkey,  suddenly  galvanized  into  life,  would 
catch  up  the  old  service  hat  which  served  as  a 
receptacle  for  offerings  and  empty  it  into  a  bag 
within. 

Such  was  the  impenetrable  front  shown  by  the 
Black  Mask  to  the  public  that  questions,  fired  at 
him  by  persevering  reporters  and  the  ever-chang 
ing  stream  of  passers-by,  seemed  actually  to  re 
bound.  Newspaper  men  and  the  crowd  entered 
quick-wittedly  into  the  spirit  of  the  game  and  tried 
ruse  after  ruse  to  elicit  response  or  at  least  the 
quiver  that  would  indicate  a  hit,  but  the  training 
of  the  mysterious  officer  stood  him  in  good  stead. 
Except  for  the  semaphore  movement  of  his  sa 
lutes,  he  appeared  to  be  a  graven  image.  Behind 
that  stolid  appearance,  however,  behind  the  mask, 
behind  the  eyes  that  gleamed  from  it,  and  behind 
and  within  the  shell  of  Captain  Roderic  Norris, 
3 


32  RACKHOUSE 

such  a  revolution  was  in  process  as  seldom  comes 
to  a  man  beyond  the  formative  years  of  his  first 
youth. 

In  an  intrinsic  sense  Norris  was  beginning  life 
over  again,  but  it  was  hitting  him  from  so  many 
unaccustomed  quarters  at  once  that  his  personality 
was  stunned  while  his  sensibilities  were  quickened. 
Like  a  traveler  through  teeming  scenes,  he  lost 
track  of  himself  in  the  face  of  sudden  vistas  down 
lanes  of  humanity  which  demanded  decoding,  and 
sudden  blobs  of  knowledge  which  insisted  on  being 
swallowed  whole  against  some  future  hour  of 
digestion  and  assimilation. 

First  and  foremost  among  these  was  the  aston 
ishing  vindication  of  Rockman's  choice  of  Sixth 
Avenue  as  the  locale  par  excellence  for  the  assault 
on  the  sources  of  compassion.  On  leaving  Smudge 
Alley  in  the  early  morning,  Norris  had  worked 
his  way  west,  stepping  up  one  at  each  cross  street 
until  he  reached  Broadway.  There  he  had  stayed 
for  two  solid  hours,  and  then  traveled  back  in  the 
same  manner  to  a  location  on  Fifth  Avenue.  An 
hour's  observation  of  that  stance  contented  his 
thirst  for  statistical  information,  and  noontime 
found  him  on  Sixth  Avenue.  So  did  sunset,  and 
so  would  the  morning  of  the  next  day  and  of  many 
a  day  thereafter.  These  were  deep  waters;  he 
was  to  anchor  in  them. 

He  had  learned  things  in  twelve  hours  about 
his  native  city  which  had  been  flying  into  his  blind 
face  unnoticed  for  twenty  years.  Streets  as  well 
as  sections  had  personalities.  "Broadway  is  hard, 


RACKHOUSE  33 

jovial,  on  the  make,"  he  communed  within  him 
self.  "When  yet  there  were  boobs  it  was  their 
Mecca  and  it's  suffering  from  a  hang-over  of  voca 
tion.  It's  still  the  haunt  of  every  picayune  shell 
game  known  to  barter,  from  the  sale  of'a  toddle 
top  to  the  purchase  of  a  $2.50  seat  at  a  movie  or 
a  movie  site  at  $2,500,000.  It's  gorged  itself  on 
its  own  past  history  until  to-day  the  man  who 
stings  his  neighbors  on  one  corner  with  a  cure-all 
at  two  bits  the  package,  is  stung  on  the  next  for 
fifty  cents  of  his  easy  money  for  the  latest  word  in 
safety  razors.  When  he  wakes  up  he  smiles  sheep 
ishly  and  is  positively  pleased!  Why?  Because 
way  down  in  him  is  a  sense  of  communal  pro 
prietorship.  He  belongs  to  the  street  that  feeds 
upon  itself — hog  and  the  trough  at  the  game  of 
turn  about  is  fair  play." 

In  the  swarm  of  Broadway  the  queer  outfit  made 
up  of  a  hurdy-gurdy,  a  monkey,  and  a  mysterious 
masked  officer  gathered  great  crowds,  but  few  pen 
nies  and  fewer  dimes.  The  denizens  of  the  town's 
main  road  are  not  incurious.  They  packed  them 
selves  like  sardines  about  Norris's  entourage, 
craned  their  necks,  took  one  long  unbelieving  look, 
and  then  melted  quicker  than  they  had  gathered. 
They  were  grieved  in  their  pride.  The  organ 
advertised  nothing.  Who  had  missed  this  stu 
pendous  chance?  Somebody  had  certainly  pulled 
a  bone,  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  of  passing 
up  an  opportunity  to  drive  home  the  local  slogan 
that  it  pays  to  advertise.  Norris  caught  the  air 
of  pained  rebuke  and  presently  moved  on. 


34  RACKHOUSE 

He  had  expected  great  things  of  Fifth  Avenue, 
but  its  note  was  revealed  to  him  as  one  of  indif 
ferent  opulence.  Its  denizens  were  too  stupid. 
They  caught  his  message,  but  they  caught  it  just 
too  late.  Hearts  were  too  deeply  buried.  Im 
pulse  was  always  just  one  step  behind  the  purse. 
Time  and  again  he  watched  the  owner  of  some 
clean,  lovely,  and  open  face  stare  blankly  during 
approach,  glimmer  with  intelligence  on  passing, 
half  halt  ten  paces  away  with  full  comprehen 
sion,  and  then  go  on,  fingering  absently  in  small- 
change  pocket  or  beaded  purse.  When  one  did 
take  the  trouble  to  come  back,  it  was  generally 
to  deposit  a  dime — of  two  or  more  dimes,  the 
worn  one. 

So,  finally,  he  had  come  to  Sixth  Avenue — to 
Sixth  Avenue  between  Forty-second  Street  and 
the  Park — heart,  stomach,  and  all  the  vitals  of 
the  city  of  New  York.  Here  passed,  lived,  and 
foraged  the  universal  family.  Rosemary  and  rue 
hobnobbed  with  burial  caskets  cheerfully  offered 
for  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night.  Glazier,  wood- 
and-ice  man,  poulterer,  candy  maker,  laundryman, 
locksmith,  stationer,  domestic  agent,  fruiterer, 
costumer,  caterer,  the  man  who  paints  black  eyes 
as  good  as  new,  Mr.  Fixit  of  every  category,  and 
the  bland  delicatessener,  each  in  his  self-appointed 
shift,  combined  to  keep  the  artery  alive  and  throb 
bing  for  twenty  hours  out  of  every  twenty-four. 

This  street  was  not  of  the  very  poor  nor  of 
the  very  rich,  neither  of  the  pure  and  proud  nor 
of  the  inept  and  downtrodden.  It  was  the  cross- 


RACKHOUSE  35 

roads  of  those  who  work  and  live,  home  of  the 
quick  step  and  the  calm  eye.  From  the  clean- 
legged  shopgirls  disgorged  by  Fifth  Avenue  to 
the  doctor's  lady  from  around  the  corner;  from 
Tony,  the  fat  bootblack,  to  his  counterpart  Tony, 
the  bloated  and  smiling  proprietor  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  Grill;  from  the  show  girl  with  money 
in  her  stocking  even  to  the  artist  and  the  poet 
with  none — all  knew  the  value  of  a  greenback  in 
a  falling  retail  market  and  could  shade  its  buying 
power  to  a  hair's  breadth  or  give  it  away  to  a 
beggar  with  a  smile. 

Quick  as  a  flash  were  these  people  to  take  in 
the  whole  meaning  of  Norris's  outfit.  The  under 
standing  are  not  curious;  they  give  and  pass  on. 
Thus  it  ensued  that  on  this  street  his  thoughts 
and  observation  were  at  the  same  time  freer  and 
more  frequently  occupied  than  on  any  other.  He 
watched  from  behind  his  mask  the  approach  of  a 
bulky  man  of  leonine  countenance  upon  which 
were  engraved  a  rugged  suggestion  of  Sicilian 
rocks  and  deep-cut  valleys.  The  face  lit  up  sud 
denly  as  though  struck  by  sunlight.  Whatever 
memories  the  organ  grinder  evoked,  whether  of 
spring  days  on  the  road  in  some  bygone  day  of 
his  own  youth  or  of  some  son  struck  down  in 
battle,  tears  were  trickling  crookedly  down  his 
swarthy  cheeks  as  he  peeled  a  five-dollar  bill 
from  a  grimy  roll  and  dropped  it  in  the  service 
hat. 

For  an  instant  Norris's  impassivity  was  threat 
ened  with  collapse.  "A  rainbow!"  something 


36  RACKHOUSE 

murmured  deep  down  in  his  heart.  "It's  as  though 
I'd  seen  a  rainbow." 

But  the  moment  was  saved  by  the  monkey.  He 
pounced  on  the  large  contribution  with  such  elo 
quent  astonishment  and  shrewd  appreciation  of 
the  magnitude  of  the  event,  he  pounded  so  em 
phatically  with  his  tiny  fist  on  the  organ  top  until 
Norris  leaned  forward,  lifted  the  flap,  and  gave 
him  a  chance  to  stow  the  treasure  deep  in  the  bag 
within,  that  passers-by  stopped  in  their  tracks, 
stared  unbelievingly,  and  then  held  their  sides 
with  mirth.  The  donor  of  the  bill  which  had 
caused  the  chattering  excitement  rocked  his  way 
slowly  up  the  street,  his  heavy  rounded  shoulders 
shaking  with  silent  laughter.  He  was  more  than 
repaid,  more  than  comforted.  He  had  forgotten. 
He  laughed! 

Trailing  reporters  who  had  wearied  of  the 
Black  Mask's  unbroken  silence  and  unvarying 
deportment,  rushed  away  to  the  nearest  telephone 
booths.  Here  was  a  story,  a  lead!  One  of  those 
rare  episodes  loaded  to  the  gills  with  news  value 
because  it  opened  to  the  mind  of  man  the  entranc 
ing  field  of  speculation  as  to  the  extent  of  that 
same  mind's  relation  to  the  ape's.  "Can  a  Monkey 
Think?  I'll  Say  He  Can!"  was  the  tenor  of  the 
song  they  sang  across  the  wires  to  the  press  room. 

The  lucky  transients  who  had  seen  the  incident 
soon  passed  on,  all  but  one.  He  had  stopped, 
observed,  walked  up  and  down  a  time  or  two, 
and  then  definitely  taken  up  his  post  with  his  back 
to  the  wall  at  a  near-by  corner.  He  was  a  peculiar 


RACKHOUSE  37 

individual,  decidely  out  of  the  ordinary.  His  eyes 
were  deeply  buried  beneath  shaggy  white  brows. 
His  nose,  which  protruded  in  a  thin  bowed  wedge 
like  the  flattened  beak  of  a  parrot,  gave  an  impres 
sion  of  shrewdness  and  power  which  was  imme 
diately  negatived  by  a  surprising  lack  of  chin.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  bowler  hat,  one  size  too  large, 
and  a  long,  straight-lined  overcoat,  one  size  too 
small.  It  made  him  look  like  a  lamppost.  At 
the  end  of  an  hour  his  presence  began  to  trouble 
Norris. 

In  the  meantime,  what  of  the  group  of  con 
spirators  who  had  launched  the  Black  Mask  on 
his  triumphant  way?  One  and  all,  though  sep 
arately,  they  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  man  on  the 
job  and  got  nothing  for  their  pains  save  the  glow 
of  secret  participation  in  a  howling  success.  Even 
that  warmth  died  a  quick  death  before  the  impas 
sivity  which  their  common  sense  recognized  as  a 
logical  part  of  the  game,  but  which  was  so  im 
mutable,  so  impersonal,  and  so  completely  with 
drawn  from  the  jovial  camaraderie  of  the  night 
before  last,  that  it  assumed  the  proportions  of  an 
active  and  monster  denial.  Against  reason,  their 
hearts  asked  with  a  strange  sinking  feeling  of 
premonition:  "Where's  Roddy  Norris?  What 
has  become  of  him?  What's  happened  to  him?" 
and  got  the  answer  of  a  blank  wall. 

It  was  only  natural  that  Dick  Page,  the  per 
petually  exuberant,  should  have  been  the  one  very 
nearly  to  spill  the  apple  cart.  He  breezed  along, 
watching  the  signs  of  success  and  utter  vindication 


38  RACKHOUSE 

as  he  came,  paused  beside  the  Black  Mask,  and 
breathed  with  a  melodramatic  show  of  discretion, 
"Give  me  a  smile  for  a  quarter,  you  old  graven 
image,  you  scout,  you  top-holer  I" 

Far  from  smiling,  Norris's  lips  drew  into  the 
white  line  of  blazing  rage.  Without  saying  a 
word,  they  yet  shouted  aloud  that  for  less  than 
the  proffered  quarter  he  would  gladly  kick  this 
free-and-easy  spoil-sport  into  the  middle  of  the 
distant  ball  season.  Three  reporters  pounced  on 
Norris's  back  with  the  same  chattering  cries,  the 
same  gestures,  and  the  same  excitement  as  had  a 
little  before  galvanized  the  monkey  upon  having 
five  dollars  of  easy  money  thrust  beneath  his  nose. 
Here  was  one  who  knew  the  Black  Mask.  No 
body  had  to  tell  them.  Their  faces  grew  pale 
with  determination,  their  eyes  proclaimed  that 
they  would  not  stop  short  of  murder. 

Had  Norris  been  less  in  dead  earnest,  had  his 
impassivity  been  a  pose  rather  than  an  actual 
metamorphosis,  he  could  not  have  helped  bursting 
into  laughter  at  the  kaleidoscopic  changes  which 
swept  over  Page's  face  in  the  instant  it  took  him 
to  realize  what  a  fool  he  had  made  of  himself 
and  how  deep  was  the  hole  into  which  his  rash 
ness  had  plunged  him.  Consternation  was  fol 
lowed  by  remorse,  and  remorse  by  frenzy.  With 
a  punch  to  the  left  and  another  to  the  right  and 
a  sudden  squirm  of  his  whole  body,  he  freed  him 
self  of  the  news  hounds  and  leaped  to  the  run 
ning  board  of  a  passing  taxi,  which  automatically 
put  on  speed.  Momentarily  Dick  had  escaped 


RACKHOUSE  39 

and,  knowing  the  town  and  its  hunger  for  any 
man's  secret,  no  one  had  to  tefl  him  that  the 
escape  would  last  only  so  long  as  he  remained  in 
hiding.  He  had  handed  himself  the  choice  be 
tween  exile  and  seclusion. 

Miss  Ardsley's  venture  was  far  more  discreet. 
Having  discovered  the  whereabouts  of  the  Black 
Mask  and  his  organ,  she  left  her  car,  cluttered 
with  all  the  editions  of  all  the  papers,  in  a  side 
street  three  blocks  away,  and  walked  up  Sixth 
Avenue  slowly,  idling  before  the  strictly  utilitarian 
shop  windows  and  otherwise  slowing  her  pace  to 
what  is  known  as  the  shopping  crawl.  Her  eyes 
were  very  busy;  so  was  her  heart.  She  had  not 
forgiven  Norris  for  the  repulse  with  which  he 
had  met  her  impetuous  advance  of  two  days  be 
fore.  If  she  had  thought  of  that  event,  the  blush 
of  shame  would  have  stained  her  cheek  and  she 
would  have  felt  a  stab  of  pain  in  her  breast.  But 
she  was  not  thinking  of  it.  She  had  that  power 
of  detachment  which  belongs  only  to  women  who 
are  built  in  a  rounded  and  generous  mold.  She 
could  forget  disaster  to  Ruth  Ardsley  in  the  tri 
umph  of  an  idea  and  the  winning  of  a  noble  cause. 

As  she  drew  near  the  goal  her  thoughts  were 
actually  more  upon  Rockman  than  upon  the  man 
she  had  loved.  Dear  old  Rocksie !  How  wonder 
ful  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  have  shown  her  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  human  hearts  as  a  vast  unchanging 
movement,  constant  and  wide  as  the  flowing  tides ! 
More  wonderful  still  that  from  his  club  window 
on  life  he  should  have  reached  out  his  thin,  strong 


40  RACKHOUSE 

hand  and  placed  an  unerring  finger  like  a  divining 
rod  on  this  blatantly  commonplace  thoroughfare 
as  soil  made  rich  by  the  sources  of  compassion. 
She  noted  the  proportion  of  passers-by  who 
checked  their  pace  just  for  an  instant,  dropped  a 
coin,  and  hurried  on.  It  was  amazing. 

No  wonder  that  her  heart  swelled  within  her, 
that  she  felt  a  melting  of  every  element  of  rigidity 
in  the  human  frame,  a  choking  in  the  throat,  a 
sense  of  throbbing  fluidity.  She  was  no  longer 
flesh  and  bone,  but  a  flowing  emotion,  soft,  tender, 
and  enveloping  as  a  warm  breeze.  Thus  made  one 
with  the  tide  of  compassion,  she  drifted  against 
the  organ  and  hung  there  for  a  moment  as  lightly 
as  a  blob  of  foam  caught  in  an  eddy.  She  laid 
one  gloved  hand  gently  on  the  monkey's  head. 
He  turned  sharply  as  though  to  bite  it,  changed 
his  mind,  and  snuggled  into  its  cupped  palm.  With 
the  other  hand  she  dropped  her  contribution  into 
the  tattered  receptacle,  and  at  the  same  time  raised 
her  burning  eyes  slowly  to  Norris's  masked  face. 

He  let  go  the  organ  handle  for  an  instant  to 
give  her  the  quick,  soldierly  salute  he  accorded 
all  others.  His  lips  were  set;  they  did  not  smile. 
Not  by  so  much  as  a  flicker  or  a  flush  did  he 
recognize  her  part  in  himself  or  in  what  he  was 
doing.  As  she  realized  that  this  was  no  affecta 
tion,  that  he  stood  alone,  immeasurably  beyond 
reach,  she  was  conscious  of  a  sinking  feeling  so 
sudden  in  its  reaction  as  to  produce  a  dizziness  in 
her  head  and  a  sensation  of  imminent  collapse  in 
her  limbs.  She  drew  erect  and  passed  on,  her 


RACKHOUSE  41 

feet  heavy,  almost  stumbling.  Gone  was  the  glori 
ous  sense  of  floating  on  a  tide.  "What  has  hap 
pened  to  Roddy?  What  has  come  over  Roddy? 
His  glittering  eyes — how  hard " 

In  spite  of  his  apparent  impassivity,  Norris 
had  felt  a  shuddering  qualm  at  her  passing.  He 
had  been  aware  of  the  hard  glitter  in  his  eyes 
and,  almost  subconsciously,  he  knew  what  had 
caused  it.  In  the  moment  while  she  had  stood 
beside  the  hurdy-gurdy,  caressing  the  monkey,  he 
had  lost  a  possible  contributor.  Ruth  had  been 
in  the  way.  A  working  girl,  finger  in  purse,  cast 
ing  her  absorbed  eyes  over  Miss  Ardsley's  im 
peccable  attire,  had  suddenly  perceived  her  and, 
by  what  impulse  let  women  say,  had  thrust  the 
coin  back  deep  in  her  pocketbook  and  passed  on. 

Norris  shuddered  that  he  should  have  turned 
glittering  eyes  on  Ruth  Ardsley  for  the  loss  of  a 
dime,  but  he  was  too  new  at  the  game  of  intro 
spection  to  read  the  full  significance  of  the  warn 
ing  in  that  chance  bit  of  writing  on  the  wall  of 
his  individual  destiny.  His  thoughts  were 
snatched  away  to  other  worries,  just  as  a  puddle 
may  divert  a  man's  attention  from  the  truck  that 
is  about  to  run  him  down.  Why  was  the  indi 
vidual  with  the  flattened  parrot  nose  still  standing 
at  the  corner?  What  did  he  want?  Why  had 
the  sight  of  Ruth  made  the  working  girl  pass  on? 
Her  face  hadn't  shown  the  slightest  sign  of  jeal 
ousy  or  envy  or  any  shade  of  social  rebellion.  Per 
haps  her  thoughts  had  simply  been  side-tracked 
to  clothes  in  the  abstract.  That  was  it.  But 


42  RACKHOUSE 

Rockman  passed  at  a  brisk  pace,  swinging  his 
cane.  He  scarcely  glanced  at  the  Black  Mask. 
He  was  watching  the  crowd,  studying  it,  drinking 
it  in  as  though  it  were  part  of  the  ozone  in  the 
bracing  air.  Norris  noticed  his  smart  attire,  cor 
rect  down  to  the  least  detail,  and  wondered  that 
such  clothes  should  seem  so  at  home,  so  com 
pletely  in  the  composite  picture  of  this  remark 
able  street. 

Presently  he  caught  sight  of  Shandy  Cullom 
chattering  familiarly  with  the  policeman  on  point 
duty  at  the  near-by  crossing.  He  could  see  a 
casual  confidence  pass  between  them.  The  police 
man  glanced  toward  the  hurdy-gurdy,  nodded 
shortly,  and  went  back  to  the  business  of  bossing 
the  traffic.  Cullom  left  him  and  sauntered  to 
the  sidewalk.  As  Norris  watched  his  approach, 
his  impassivity  seemed  to  harden  and  concentrate 
until  it  became  an  actually  repellent  force.  Some 
thing  within  him  shouted  that  it  didn't  want 
Shandy  Cullom  butting  in.  Ruth  petting  the 
monkey,  Rockman  spying  around,  Dick  Page  gum 
ming  the  game — it  didn't  want  any  of  them  pok 
ing  their  noses  into  none  of  their  business! 

Cullom,  from  thirty  feet  away,  caught  that  ex 
pression.  He  was  no  fool.  Norris  would  have 
been  safer  with  him  than  with  any  of  his  finer- 
grained  friends.  Cullom  would  have  given  away 
nothing.  He  could  have  stood  at  ease  close  by, 
presented  a  poker  face  to  a  gang  of  reporters,  and 
talked  through  his  ear  without  being  found  out. 
But  one  glimpse  at  the  lips  beneath  the  black 


RACKHOUSE  43 

mask  was  enough  to  bring  him  up  all  standing. 
He  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  turned,  and  strode 
away.  "Thank  God !"  thought  Norris  deep  within 
himself.  "He's  off.  He  knows  better  than  to 
come  butting  in." 

It  was  the  edge  of  the  evening,  the  disgorging 
hour  of  the  day.  A  flood  of  shoppers  and  shop 
girls,  released  from  Fifth  Avenue,  poured  west 
ward  to  Broadway  lights  and  the  early  movies. 
Matinee  crowds  formed  a  counter  current  swarm 
ing  toward  the  east.  From  the  elevated  stations, 
homecomers  debouched  in  squads  every  three  min 
utes.  Cutting  across  and  through  these  main  cur 
rents,  the  individual,  sauntering  or  bent  upon  some 
definite  errand,  wended  his  way,  a  mark  for  all 
eyes  yet  remarked  by  none.  Show  girls  in  pairs 
or  hanging  to  the  arm  of  just  a  meal  ticket  were 
headed  for  early  dinners  at  a  modest  price.  An 
untidy  trace  of  yesterday's  make-up  was  their 
badge. 

Delicatessen  shops  with  expensive  wares  began 
to  come  into  their  own.  "Who  keeps  these  pur 
veyors  of  all  the  world's  titbits  busy  for  eighteen 
hours  out  of  the  twenty-four?"  asked  Norris  of 
himself,  and  answered  silently,  as  though  tallying 
them  off  as  they  came.  "The  hall-bedroom  gour 
met  with  a  week's  pay  in  his  hand;  the  artist  with 
a  picture  sold;  the  writer  with  a  check  in  his 
pocket,  thirty  days  overdue;  the  plumber  and  the 
plumbed;  the  exiles  from  a  dozen  distant  shores; 
the  man  in  a  hurry  and  the  woman  who  works 
to  eat;  and,  finally,  all  the  cream  of  humanity 


44  RACKHOUSE 

which  is  no  respecter  of  other  people's  hours. 
That's  who  they  are — all  these  people." 

The  atoms  which  made  up  these  drifting  crowds 
were  no  parasites  of  unearned  increment;  they 
might  be  near  the  end  of  a  rope,  but  it  was  a 
rope  of  their  own  weaving.  They  knew  where 
to  get  money  and  how  to  get  more.  They  made 
it.  They  minted  it  out  of  typewriters,  or  patience, 
or  smiles,  or  brains,  or  showing  their  shapes,  or 
kicking  their  legs,  or  singing  or  writing  a  song, 
or  by  the  sweat  of  somebody  else's  brow,  but 
they  all  had  it,  and  when  they  had  it  they  spent  it. 

Norris,  turning  the  crank  of  his  ancient  hurdy- 
gurdy,  felt  as  though  he  were  grinding  a  rich 
lode  of  ore.  These  crowds  were  paying  dirt. 
Whatever  the  outcrop  of  clothes  and  hats  and 
shoes,  they  assayed  a  high  percentage.  Did  a 
girl  come  along  a  bit  frayed  at  the  elbows,  just 
a  shade  down  at  the  heels,  it  meant  nothing — not 
a  thing.  She  might  give  him  a  smile  of  gold,  but 
if  a  coin,  it  was  sure  to  be  a  quarter.  He  grew 
to  know  those  girls.  He  could  see  them  coming. 
They  were  of  the  salt  of  the  earth.  They  were 
frayed  because  their  hearts  kept  them  that  way, 
because  they  were  born  givers.  But  as  he  accepted 
their  offerings  some  new  demon  within  him 
blinded  him  to  the  recollection  that  pieces  of 
silver  have  a  cutting  edge. 

Through  it  all  the  parrot-nosed  watcher  on  the 
corner  worried  him.  What  was  the  man  doing 
there?  Why  did  he  never  move  a  muscle?  Why 
was  he  waiting,  and  what  for?  Was  he  subject 


RACKHOUSE  45 

to  the  illusion  of  his  own  appearance?  Did  he 
take  himself  for  the  lamppost  he  so  much  re 
sembled?  His  presence  pressed  so  inexorably  on 
Norris's  attention  that  he  finally  decided  to  call 
it  a  day  and  make  for  home  in  spite  of  the  con 
tinued  flow  of  ready  money  into  the  hat  and  from 
the  hat  to  the  bag  in  the  bowels  of  the  organ. 

He  dropped  the  crank  and  went  to  the  shafts 
at  the  end  of  the  hurdy-gurdy.  He  had  been 
standing  in  one  spot  for  many  hours  and  had  for 
gotten  the  weight  of  the  old  organ.  He  caught 
up  a  shaft  with  his  one  free  hand  and  pulled  half 
heartedly.  The  wheels  did  not  move.  He  was 
standing  too  close  to  get  his  weight  into  action, 
but  he  would  not  change  his  hold.  Flushing  more 
with  anger  than  with  the  exertion,  the  muscles 
in  his  neck  swelling,  he  tried  to  start  the  organ 
by  the  strength  of  his  right  forearm. 

A  girl  on  the  sidewalk  stopped,  stared,  under 
stood,  and  stepped  quickly  off  the  curb  to  his 
assistance.  She  was  an  odd-looking  girl,  rather 
shabbily  dressed  in  a  plumed  hat  and  blue-serge 
suit.  She  was  all  eyes  and  energy,  not  at  all  beau 
tiful.  With  her  thin  hands  she  seized  the  other 
shaft  of  the  organ  and  gave  a  great  pull.  It 
started,  and,  once  under  way,  rolled  easily  along. 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Norris,  breaking  for 
the  first  time  his  rule  of  silence.  "Thank  you  so 
much." 


Chapter  III 

"T'M  that  glad!"  said  the  girl,  laughing  nerv- 
•*•  ously.  "You  see,  I  had  no  money.  Not  a 
red  to  give  you."  She  walked  along  beside  him, 
her  eyes  busily  watching  the  right  of  way. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  said  the  Black  Mask,  pres 
ently,  in  a  tone  of  dismissal.  "Very  much  obliged 
to  you." 

She  did  not  turn  back.  Presently  she  threw  a 
glance  over  her  shoulder.  "Them  newspaper  men 
is  following  us,"  she  said. 

"Damn!"  breathed  Norris,  half  stopping  in  his 
tracks. 

It  was  enough.  The  girl  turned,  rushed  upon 
the  reporters,  and  accosted  the  luckless  individual 
who  happened  to  be  in  their  van.  "Beat  it!"  she 
said,  giving  as  fine  an  imitation  of  a  cup  of  fury 
in  five  feet  six  of  protective  flesh  and  feathers  as 
ever  was  brought  into  play  on  five  seconds'  notice. 
"Beat  it  and  stay  beat.  If  I  catch  you  followin' 
of  us  one  more  step,  I'll  scratch  your  faces  so's 
you'll  be  answering  questions  all  through  the 
spring.  Go  on!  Turn  the  other  way!"  She 
gave  a  little  dash  at  them,  eyes  ablaze,  ungloved 
hands  spread  into  five-fingered  talons.  They  fled. 

The  Black  Mask  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  be- 


RACKHOUSE  47 

fore  she  caught  up  with  him.  "Got  to  watch  'em 
for  you,"  she  explained,  as  she  resumed  her  place 
at  his  side  and  from  time  to  time  cast  a  glance 
over  her  shoulder.  He  would  have  dismissed  her 
unequivocally  had  it  not  been  for  his  discovery 
that  the  lamppost  had  uprooted  itself  and  was  fol 
lowing  him.  This  strange  individual  piqued  his 
curiosity  and  at  the  same  time  aroused  his  fears 
far  beyond  the  futile  persecutions  of  reporters 
and  camera  men.  For  them  he  was  prepared;  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  keep  his  head  and  say  noth 
ing.  But  this  man  was  a  mystery,  a  veiled  threat. 
In  the  back  of  the  Black  Mask's  mind — a  totally 
new  mind  as  far  as  Roderic  Norris  was  concerned 
— a  vague  intention  was  forming  to  use  the  girl 
as  she  had  used  herself,  set  her  on  this  troublesome 
stranger  as  though  she  had  been  a  terrier. 

"Isn't  that  a  reporter?"  he  murmured,  pres 
ently,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  sidewalk. 

With  a  single  look  the  girl  took  in  the  parrot- 
nosed  individual  from  the  crown  of  his  hat  to  the 
tips  of  his  square-toed  boots.  "No,"  she  said, 
shortly,  "he  ain't." 

"Why  don't  you  drive  him  off?"  suggested  the 
Black  Mask. 

"Me.  Drive  him  off?"  asked  the  girl,  her  large 
eyes  fastened  on  Norris's  hidden  face.  "Say,  you 
are  a  young  one.  Can't  you  see  that  bum  ain't 
afraid  of  women  ?  He'd  bite  my  throat  out  before 
it  got  through  talking  to  him." 

"He  would,  eh?"  murmured  Norris.  His  right 
arm  began  to  itch.  He  watched  the  streets  lead- 

4 


48  RACKHOUSE 

ing  to  the  east  in  search  of  a  reasonably  empty 
one  where  he  could  punch  the  stranger  in  the  jaw 
without  causing  too  much  commotion.  He  thought 
the  matter  over  soberly  and  weighed  satisfaction 
and  relief  against  the  possibilities  and  inconveni 
ences  of  arrest.  Presently  he  found  such  a  street, 
but  had  scarcely  turned  the  corner  into  its  rela 
tive  seclusion  when  the  object  of  his  solicitude 
tacked  across  the  pavement  to  the  sidewalk  at 
Norris's  right  and,  with  eyes  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him,  began  to  talk  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  mouth. 

"Listen,  pardner,"  he  said,  in  a  not  unpleasant 
voice,  "forget  that  rough  stuff.  I'm  your  friend, 
I  am.  Just  been  hanging  around  as  a  matter  of 
business — good  business  for  you  and  better  for 
me." 

The  Black  Mask  did  not  answer;  at  the  same 
time  he  did  not  swerve  away  from  the  curb,  as 
he  might  have  done.  He  held  straight  on  his 
course,  but  slightly  quickened  his  pace.  The  girl 
had  assumed  an  attitude  of  neutrality.  Her  bear 
ing  showed  that,  far  from  considering  the  gray- 
haired  stranger  an  element  of  danger,  she  was 
inclined  to  hear  his  words  as  coming  from  an 
oracle. 

"No  use  hitting  it  up,"  he  continued,  presently. 
"I've  been  quite  a  walker  in  my  day.  Listen  to 
me,  you  new  boy.  I  want  to  buy  your  change. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  a  thousand  pen 
nies,  eh?  With  hundreds  of  nickels  and  dimes, 
eh?  You  hadn't  thought  of  that,  had  you?  Do 


RACKHOUSE  49 

you  know  how  long  it  takes  to  count  a  thousand 
pennies?  No,  you  don't.  Do  you  want  to  stand 
for  an  hour — mebbe  two  hours — at  a  bank  window 
an'  all  the  world  and  the  teller  cursing  you  for  a 
solid  hour — mebbe  two?  And  askin'  questions? 
Ha  !"  he  laughed  dryly,  shortly,  and  spat. 

Norris  gave  evidence  that  he  heard  and  con 
sidered.  He  slowed  his  pace.  "That's  it,"  said 
the  money  changer,  "think  it  out.  I  buy  your 
pennies  at  $1.15  for  a  nice  crisp  bill,  not  too  crisp, 
of  course,  or  you'd  think  it  was  phony  money. 
Your  nickels  at  a  dollar  for  a  dollar  ten;  on  dimes 
I  ask  the  same  premium;  but  the  quarters  I'll 
trade  even.  When  we've  done  all  that,  I'll 
give  you  hundred-dollar  bills  for  the  lot  at  no 
charge." 

"Hundred-dollar  bills!"  murmured  Norris. 
"You're  crazy!" 

The  man  stopped  and,  through  suggestion,  the 
Black  Mask  also  came  to  a  halt.  "Listen,"  said 
the  stranger,  drawing  a  hand  slowly  from  his 
overcoat  pocket.  "Look,"  he  added,  casting  a 
cautious  glance  up  and  down  the  street.  "See 
this  wad?  I'll  give  you  three  hundred  dollars  for 
what's  in  the  organ,  and  no  questions  asked.  Do 
you  take  me?" 

"Three  hundred  dollars !"  gasped  Norris. 

"He  does  not!  See?"  interrupted  the  girl,  pro- 
tectingly.  She  gave  Norris  a  shove,  caught  the 
shaft  of  the  organ  with  both  hands,  and  began 
to  trundle  it  along.  Norris  seized  the  other 
handle,  but  scarcely  pulled.  An  absent  mood  had 


50  RACKHOUSE 

settled  on  him.  He  walked  along  meekly  as 
though  these  two  waifs  of  another  world — the 
strange  girl  and  the  stranger  man — had  taken 
charge  of  him,  picked  him  up  for  flotsam  on  their 
familiar  shores.  His  mind  tried  to  busy  itself 
with  mental  arithmetic.  Three  times  three  was 
nine.  There  are  thirty  days  in  a  month.  Thirty 
times  three  hundred  was  nine  thousand.  Twelve 
times  nine  thousands — twelve  times  nine — What 
was  twelve  times  nine?  Or  nine  times  twelve? 
Take  it  this  way:  ten  times  twelve  was  a  hundred 
and  twenty.  Subtract  twelve  and 

He  looked  up  at  the  next  corner,  guided  the 
hurdy-gurdy  around  it,  steered  south  for  a  block 
and  then  east  until  they  came  to  the  garage  apart 
ment  in  Smudge  Alley.  He  opened  the  door.  The 
girl  and  the  money  changer  wheeled  the  organ 
into  the  center  of  the  living  room.  Norris  closed 
the  door  and  locked  it;  then  he  turned  on  the 
lights,  sat  down,  and  stared  at  the  floor.  His  set 
lips  moved.  "Subtract  twelve,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "Subtract  twelve " 

The  lamppost  suddenly  unbent  and  took  a  seat 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair;  so  did  the  girl.  The 
monkey  stared  at  the  three  silent  occupants  of 
the  apartment  and  then  began  to  chatter,  jump 
up  and  down,  rattle  his  chain,  and  give  other  signs 
of  discontent.  Norris  was  aroused  by  the  racket 
from  his  brown  study.  He  arose,  got  a  banana, 
and  handed  it  to  the  disturber  of  the  peace;  then 
he  released  him  and  put  him  away  in  his  cage. 
The  girl's  eyes  followed  him,  and,  once  in  motion, 


RACKHOUSE  51 

kept  going,  examining  every  nook  and  cranny  and 
fixture  of  the  tasteful  room. 

"Look  here,  pardner,"  said  the  money  changer, 
presently,  with  a  surprisingly  winning  smile, 
"we're  going  to  be  friends,  ain't  we?  You're  at 
home,  ain't  you?  Take  off  your  overcoat  and 
ease  your  left  arm.  It  must  be  kind  of  cramped 
and  tired." 

Norris  was  startled,  but  the  training  of  the 
long  day  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  did  not 
move,  but  his  eyes  came  to  life,  studied  the  old 
man  shrewdly,  and  then  the  girl.  "Is  it  as  easy 
to  see  as  all  that?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"I  never  seen  it,"  said  the  girl,  promptly. 
"Honest,  I  didn't.  I  thought  you  was  a  winged 
soldier,  all  righty."  She  seemed  to  take  pride  in 
the  thought  that  she  had  been  duped. 

"Ha  !"  laughed  the  money  changer,  explosively. 
"Son,  unless  a  man's  paid  for  seeing,  he  never  sees 
nothing.  Cops  sees  things,  rag  pickers  see  things, 
people  like  me  sees  things.  It's  our  business.  We 
got  to,  or  lose  out.  But  the  whole  world  never 
sees  nothing  only  the  particular  book  it  happens 
to  be  reading.  Believe  that,  son.  I  know.  When 
you're  paid  for  seeing  things,  you  see  'em  or  get 
the  sack." 

Norris  stared  at  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  man's  easy  flow  of  words  was  purposely  un- 
grammatical,  that  his  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a 
straight  chair  as  if  he  were  not  at  home  in  such 
comfortable  surroundings  was  a  pose.  He  was 
about  to  put  his  suspicion  to  the  test  when  the 


52  RACKHOUSE 

thought  of  the  uncounted  money  in  the  organ 
suddenly  drew  him  to  his  feet.  He  went  to  the 
hurdy-gurdy,  opened  it,  unhooked  and  lifted  out 
the  sack.  It  was  very  heavy.  He  took  it  to  the 
couch  and  began  spilling  out  its  contents.  The 
coins  came  with  a  shimmering  rush  which  he 
choked  midway.  Through  the  cloth  of  the  bag 
he  felt  the  crinkle  of  a  few  bank  notes.  Why 
should  he  show  those  bills?  He  would  not  need 
to  change  them.  Why  let  these  strangers  see 
them? 

Strange  to  say,  Roderic  Norris  recognized  this 
hiding  impulse  as  arising  from  a  miserly  instinct. 
The  discovery  shocked  him  even  though  he  con 
nected  it  with  no  other  development  of  the  day. 
He  straightened,  took  off  his  overcoat  and  cap, 
laid  them  aside,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in 
thought.  With  a  pull  he  freed  the  sash  with 
which  he  had  bound  his  left  arm  to  his  side. 
Outwardly  he  appeared  calm  enough,  but  within 
him  all  was  confusion,  topsyturvydom,  tur 
moil.  Two  nights  ago  he  had  lost  Ruth  Ards- 
ley  for  lack  of  a  five-dollar  bill;  to-night —  He 
felt  stifled  and  raised  his  hands  toward  his  face. 
The  girl,  quick  witted,  jumped  up  and  hurriedly 
drew  the  shades  on  all  the  windows.  Her  premo 
nition  assumed  the  force  of  a  suggestion.  As 
though  he  were  driven  to  do  so,  Norris  removed 
the  black  mask. 

The  girl  stared  at  his  face  with  hungry  eyes. 
An  enigmatic  smile  of  content  and  proprietorship 
twisted  her  thin,  colorless  lips.  The  deportment 


RACKHOUSE  53 

of  the  old  money  changer  offered  a  marked  con 
trast.  He  scarcely  glanced  at  Norris,  showed 
no  curiosity  whatever,  and  continued  to  busy 
himself  with  the  makings  of  a  cigarette,  exer 
cising  great  care  to  spill  no  flake  of  tobacco  on 
the  floor.  In  his  own  way,  he  was  neat  and 
thorough. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  as  though  there  had  been 
no  long  interruption,  "the  everyday  world  and 
his  wife  sees  only  the  book  they're  reading,  but  us 
others,  you  and  me — you'll  learn.  You  been 
learning  to-day.  I  seen  you.  You  been  seeing 
things  you've  seen  all  your  life  an'  never  seen  afore 
to-day!  Ha!" 

"That's  true,"  said  Norris,  thoughtfully.  "Now 
let's  count  this  money."  He  completed  emptying 
the  bag,  turning  it  inside  out  to  make  sure  of  miss 
ing  nothing. 

The  money  changer  gave  the  heap  of  coins  a 
single  measuring  look.  "How  do  you  figure  to 
count  it,  son?"  he  asked.  "By  hand?" 

"Why,  of  course!"  exclaimed  Norris.  "How 
else  would  you  do  it." 

"Ha  I"  cackled  the  old  man.  He  settled  back 
in  his  chair,  lit  the  cigarette  he  had  just  rolled, 
and  tipped  his  bowler  hat  forward  to  shade  his 
eyes.  The  girl  sensed  the  shadow,  thrown  before, 
of  abstract  conversation.  She  yawned,  got  up, 
took  off  her  hat,  laid  it  aside,  wandered  around, 
gasped,  and  suddenly  plunged  into  the  bed 
room.  Almost  immediately  there  came  there 
from  the  sound  of  the  beating  of  pillows,  and 


54  RACKHOUSE 

the  swish  of  sheets  and  blankets  being  whipped 
into  order. 

As  she  departed,  the  money  changer  gestured 
toward  her  with  a  jerk  of  his  head.  "Inexplicable 
sex!"  he  said,  with  correct  diction  and  a  totally 
new  intonation. 

Norris  turned  quickly  from  contemplating  the 
heap  of  money  and  stared  at  his  mysterious  visitor, 
his  eyes  full  of  curious  questioning.  The  old  man 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  took  off  your  mask, 
didn't  you?"  he  asked,  and,  as  though  that  ques 
tion  answered  everything,  continued:  "A  woman 
can  smell  an  impersonal  atmosphere  coming  from 
around  the  corner  and,  physically  or  mentally,  she 
always  ducks.  Ha !  Makes  them  mad  to  tell 
them  so;  they  don't  even  recognize  their  own 
instincts.  This  one  was  right.  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  about  an  explorer  I  read  about." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Norris,  sitting  down. 

"This  chap  had  to  pay  off  sixty  carriers  at  the 
end  of  a  four  weeks'  journey.  Savage  country. 
Bad  time  of  year.  He'd  had  to  promise  big  wages 
before  he  started,  and  when  it  came  to  paying 
off  he  found  they  didn't  know  any  money  but  cop 
pers  and  gold.  Wouldn't  take  silver;  hadn't 
earned  gold.  The  Banyan  merchants  knew  all 
about  it.  They  carried  coppers  in  sacks  in  their 
stocks,  sold  them  like  we  do  potatoes.  He  bought 
three  hundred  dollars  in  pennies,  ha'pence,  and 
farthings,  and  started  to  count  out  each  porter's 
earnings.  It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
he  began,  and  at  noon  he  had  paid  ten  men." 


RACKHOUSE  55 

"That's  incredible,"  said  Norris. 

"Pennies,  ha'pence,  and  farthings,"  repeated 
the  old  man.  "Try  it.  Just  try  it.  Ha!  That's  the 
way  you  learn  things — trying  them.  That's  the 
way  he  came  to  think  of  something  that's  going 
to  help  you  and  me.  Let  me  out  of  here.  While 
I'm  gone,  you  count  out  a  pile  of  a  hundred  pen 
nies,  another  of  nickels,  another  of  dimes,  another 
of  quarters.  By  that  time  I'll  be  here  again. 
Show  me  your  back  door." 

Norris  let  him  out,  and  on  the  way  back  to  the 
living  room  paused  to  look  for  the  girl.  She  had 
finished  making  his  bed  and  had  taken  possession 
of  the  tiny  kitchen.  She  was  preparing  a  meal. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  started  on,  and  then 
stopped  long  enough  to  say,  "Make  enough  for 
three,  will  you?" 

The  girl  threw  him  a  glance.  Her  eyes  were 
absorbed.  For  an  instant  they  seemed  to  wonder 
who  he  was;  then  they  became  conscious.  "Sure," 
she  answered  and  returned  to  her  work. 

He  went  to  the  living  room,  drew  a  small  table 
to  the  side  of  the  couch,  sat  down,  and  prepared 
to  count  out  coins  as  the  money  changer  had  di 
rected.  First  he  laid  aside  the  lone  five-dollar  bill 
and  three  of  smaller  denomination;  then  he  sep 
arated  all  the  specie  into  small  heaps  of  the  differ 
ent  varieties.  After  that  he  made  piles  of  a 
hundred  of  each  value  and  placed  them  in  an 
orderly  row  along  the  edge  of  the  table.  From 
time  to  time  he  would  pause,  his  eyes  fascinated 
and  held  by  the  scattered  money. 


56  RACKHOUSE 

Roderic  Norris  had  been  born  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  his  mouth,  to  flounder  thoughtlessly  in 
the  lap  of  luxury  through  thirty  years  of  a  rather 
inconsequent  life.  The  war  had  come  along  in 
time  to  prove  the  good  stuff  that  was  in  him,  but 
its  aftermath  of  passed  dividends  and  tumbling 
values  had  struck  him  where  he  was  weakest. 
Faced  with  danger,  he  had  been  a  man;  faced  with 
a  shortage  of  money,  he  had  become  bewildered 
and  lost  his  bearings. 

Life  had  seemed  a  simple  matter.  His  ambi 
tion  had  been  to  win  Ruth  Ardsley,  found  a  home, 
acquire  a  vague  number  of  children,  cut  coupons, 
and  play  polo.  This  skeleton  of  a  program  to 
ward  felicity  would  have  at  least  been  started 
before  the  crash  had  it  not  been  for  Ruth's  verdict 
that  its  conclusion  was  inadequate.  She  could  see 
herself  in  the  role  of  home  maker  and  mother,  but 
an  inherent  sense  of  values  refused  to  recognize 
any  amount  of  coupon  clipping  or  polo  playing  on 
the  part  of  Roddy  as  a  quid  pro  quo  to  her  share 
in  the  proposed  activities.  So  Roddy  had  gone 
into  business,  with  disastrous  results  known  only 
to  himself.  He  would  have  become  poor,  anyway, 
in  the  natural  course  which  events  had  chosen  to 
follow,  but  business  had  brought  him  up  all  stand 
ing,  struck  him  a  stunning  blow  between  the  eyes. 

In  his  bewilderment  he  fell  back  on  the  only 
code  he  knew:  never  talk  about  money,  never 
borrow,  pay  your  way,  lend  without  words  when 
you're  asked,  play  the  game,  keep  your  mouth  shut 
and  your  lips  smiling.  He  had  practiced  this 


RACKHOUSE  57 

creed  up  to  its  bitter  and  rapid  conclusion,  which 
by  a  fluke  had  happened  to  coincide  with  his  last 
evening  in  his  rooms  at  the  Royal.  He  had  known 
that  that  night  was  to  be  the  end  of  all  familiar 
things  for  Roddy  Norris,  and  he  had  come  to 
it  smiling,  too  numbed  for  despair  or  for  one 
glimmering  inkling  of  what  the  morrow  might 
bring. 

And  then  it  had  happened — everything  had  hap 
pened.  The  tale  of  Tiger  Beggs.  The  discussion 
with  Dick  Page.  In  memory  he  could  hear  his 
own  voice  saying,  UA  fluke  is  a  chance  happening, 
and  I  hold  to  it  that  a  fluke — some  trifling,  un 
premeditated  happening — can  change  not  only  a 
man's  future,  but  his  nature."  After  that  Ruth 
had  sprung  in  with  her  mad  scheme  to  tap  the 
sources  of  compassion.  How  long  ago !  And 
now — here  was  money,  hundreds  of  dollars  in  a 
single  day!  It  made  him  hate  to  think.  For 
some  inexplicable  reason  it  covered  him  with 
goose  flesh.  He  returned  feverishly  to  the  work 
of  counting  out  the  little  heaps,  and,  just  as  he 
was  finishing  the  task,  the  old  man  returned,  car 
rying  in  one  hand  a  tarnished  pair  of  balance 
scales  bought  in  some  East  Side  junk  shop. 

With  their  aid,  the  counting  of  the  rest  of  the 
money  became  a  rapid  matter.  Placing  the  hun 
dred  pennies  in  one  scale  as  a  standard  weight, 
the  rest  of  the  coppers  were  poured  in  handfuls 
into  the  opposite  scale  and  tipped  out  as  fast  as 
they  balanced.  So  with  the  nickels  and  dimes  and 
quarters.  Norris,  with  a  bit  of  paper  and  the 


58  RACKHOUSE 

stub  of  a  pencil,  kept  tally  and  struck  off  the  totals. 
He  added  up  the  various  sums  and  sat  staring  at 
the  result.  The  girl  came  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen  as  though  she  had  scented  the  climax;  the 
old  man  leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  read  the 
grand  total  aloud:  "Four  hundred  and  twelve 
dollars  and  eighty-three  cents." 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "And  you  wanted 
to  do  him  out  of  it  for  three  hundred!"  With 
that  remark  she  seemed  completely  to  lose  interest 
and  returned  to  her  cooking. 

"Now  we'll  figure  out  what  I  owe  you  for  tak 
ing  over  the  lot,"  murmured  Norris,  presently. 
"You  said  fifteen  cents  the  hundred  for  pennies, 
and  ten  for  nickels  and  dimes." 

He  used  up  the  slip  of  paper,  took  another,  cov 
ered  it  with  figures  and  finally  announced,  "That's 
the  best  I  can  do:  Twenty-three  dollars  and  sixty- 
nine  cents.  Pretty  steep  on  the  dimes.  You're 
clever.  But  I  won't  kick  if  you'll  tell  me  how  you 
knew." 

The  money  changer  had  been  watching  him  with 
narrowed  eyes.  "Son,"  he  said,  dodging  the  issue 
momentarily,  "never  mix  premiums  with  percen 
tages — not  when  you're  selling.  Give  me  that 
paper  and  pencil." 

He  figured  rapidly  and  laid  the  result  on  the 
table.  "Here  you  are,"  he  said,  pointing  with 
grimy  finger.  "You've  got  eighteen  hundred  and 
nineteen  dimes,  and  if  I  take  them  over  at  eleven 
to  the  dollar,  my  premium  is  sixteen  dollars  and 
fifty-four  cents  and  not  eighteen  dollars  and  nine- 


RACKHOUSE  59 

teen  cents,  the  way  you  got  it.  I  get  a  dollar  thirty 
on  two  hundred  and  eighty-five  nickels  and  three 
fifty  on  two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighteen 
pennies.  That  makes  my  total  twenty-one  thirty- 
four  instead  of  twenty-three  sixty-nine.  Is  that  all 
right?" 

Norris  nodded.  "It's  all  right  with  me  if  you'll 
tell  me  how  you  guessed  about  the  dimes  and  how 
you  knew  that  you  were  safe  when  you  offered 
me  three  hundred  dollars  blind." 

"Clear  that  table,  you,"  called  the  girl  from  the 
kitchen. 

The  money  changer  drew  a  long,  stout  canvas 
bag  from  his  hip  pocket,  unfolded  it,  and  began 
to  pour  in  the  coins.  First  he  took  the  pennies 
and  tied  the  sack  just  above  them  with  a  bit  of 
string;  then  the  dimes;  after  them  the  quarters; 
and  finally  the  nickels.  The  notes  he  laid  aside, 
and  from  his  roll  and  small-change  pocket  took 
three  one-hundred-dollar  bills  and  enough  smaller 
money  to  make  up  a  total  of  three  hundred  and 
ninety-one  dollars  and  forty-nine  cents,  which  he 
handed  to  Norris.  "I'll  tell  you  about  the  dimes 
and  lots  more  after  supper,"  he  said,  as  the  girl 
entered  with  tablecloth,  napkins,  and  plates. 

She  served  the  meal  with  no  explanations  and 
no  excuses.  Her  attitude  was  that  food  is  food 
and  that  people  of  the  class  of  the  trio  present 
ought  to  be  glad  to  get  and  eat  it  without  words. 
As  she  took  her  place  at  the  crowded  table  the 
money  changer  bowed  his  head  for  a  silent  grace. 
The  girl  busied  herself  with  pouring  the  coffee, 


60  RACKHOUSE 

and,  when  he  looked  up,  asked,  quite  incuriously, 
"What's  that  gamer 

"An  ancient  habit,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  "It  has  died  out  with  the 
tendency  to  eat  in  public  places,  but  when  I  am  in 
what  the  French  call  an  interior  I  revert  to  it.  It 
makes  me  feel  at  home." 

"Feel  at  home,"  said  the  girl,  repeating  the  only 
phrase  she  had  understood.  "There's  only  one 
place  you  wouldn't  feel  at  home  and  that's  at  the 
handle  end  of  a  shovel." 

"You  are  a  very  observing  young  woman,"  he 
replied,  without  rancor,  "but  if  we  are  going  to 
eat  together  we  should  be  friends.  My  name  is 
Jimmie;  we'll  call  our  host  the  Black  Mask,  or 
Blackie,  for  short.  What  is  your  name?" 

"It's  a  silly  one,  all  righty,"  said  the  girl.  "Mil- 
licent.  You  can  make  it  Millie." 

"You  operate  a  telephone  switchboard  and  have 
no  mother  at  home;  only  dad  and  a  brother  or 
two,"  said  Jimmie,  in  a  casual  tone.  "They  sponge 
on  you." 

The  girl's  large  eyes  grew  larger.  She  gasped, 
caught  her  breath,  murmured,  "Mind  your  own 
business,"  and  started  to  eat. 

As  soon  as  they  had  finished  she  cleared  the 
table,  and  presently  the  two  men  could  hear  her 
washing  the  dishes.  Jimmie  took  a  package  of 
cheap  cigarettes  from  his  pocket,  gave  one  to 
Norris,  and  helped  himself.  "When  they  say  'all 
righty'  like  that,"  he  observed,  "they're  from  the 
switchboard.  If  she  had  a  mother  she'd  be  a  bit 


RACKHOUSE  61 

nervous  about  not  going  straight  home.  She  isn't 
nervous.  Her  menfolks  sponge  on  her  or  she 
wouldn't  have  been  so  sore  on  loafers.  But  you 
were  asking  about  dimes  and  how  I  knew  the  size 
of  your  bag." 

Norris  nodded.  "And  the  lots  more  you  said 
you'd  tell  me,"  he  reminded. 

"When  a  man  gets  as  old  as  I  am,"  said  Jimmie, 
"his  tale  ought  to  go  back  a  long  way,  but  it  gen 
erally  doesn't.  Mine  wouldn't  if  I  hadn't  jumped 
the  track  twelve  years  ago  this  coming  summer. 
I  was  a  full-blown  professor  in  a  backwoods,  jerk 
water  college.  I  was  getting  twenty-four  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  living  on  it  and  supporting  a  family. 
I  woke  up  quite  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  life 
and  my  job  and  the  family  were  slowly  boring  me 
to  death.  I  took  all  the  savings  there  were  and 
left  home — went  for  a  walk  and  kept  on  walking." 

"Sounds  like  recent  fiction,"  commented  Norris. 
"That's  book  stuff." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jimmie,  indifferently.  "I 
haven't  read  a  book  in  the  last  twelve  years.  It 
may  be  book  stuff  as  you  say,  Blackie,  but  men 
have  been  doing  just  what  I  did,  only  in  one  way 
and  another,  for  a  hundred  generations.  Inci 
dentally,  I  make  from  four  to  five  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year  and — soon  I'll  be  making  a  hundred 
thousand.  I  was  decent  enough  to  support  my 
wife  till  she  died.  I  think  that  surprised  her 
more  than  anything  else  I  ever  did.  My  children 
learned  to  look  after  themselves,  so  all  the  money 
that  comes  into  the  old  sack  there  is  velvet." 


62  RACKHOUSE 

Norris's  eyes  had  narrowed  at  the  casual  man 
ner  in  which  Jimmie  had  predicted  an  income  for 
himself  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Either 
the  old  man  was  crazy  or  he  was  joking.  Which 
ever  the  solution,  it  would  transpire  in  its  own 
time. 

"How  could  a  man  of  your  traditions  go  twelve 
years  without  reading?"  he  asked.  During  the 
laconic  recital  of  an  epic  break  in  a  college  pro 
fessor's  humdrum  existence,  a  dozen  questions 
had  popped  into  mind  which  struck  much  deeper 
than  the  one  he  had  chosen  to  ask — questions  of 
home  ties  and  of  affections,  of  honor  and  of  ways 
and  means — but  there  was  something  in  the  old 
man's  eyes  that  seemd  to  link  him  inextricably 
with  the  printed  page. 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  Jimmie,  with  less  explosive- 
ness  in  the  short  laugh  than  usual.  "Reading! 
Why,  I  read  all  the  time.  I  read  the  book  of 
books.  I  read  life — life  in  fine  print  and  foot 
notes.  I  read  Milly.  I  read  you.  I  read  the 
fact  that  a  crowd  that  isn't  carrying  the  evening 
papers  isn't  apt  to  have  many  pennies  in  its  clothes. 
Even  if  it  has,  I  read  the  difference  between  a 
dago  with  a  hand  organ  and  a  one-armed  officer 
with  the  same  hurdy-gurdy.  Emotionally,  it's  the 
difference  between  one  cent  and  a  dime.  Do  you 
get  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Norris,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"I  get  that.  And  how  did  you  know  how  much 
I'd  taken  in?" 

"Practice,"  said  Jimmie.  "There  are  lots  of  men 


RACKHOUSE  63 

in  this  town  who  get  good  salaries  for  doing  what 
I  was  doing  to-day.  Cigar-  and  ten-cent  stores 
always  employ  a  bunch  of  them.  They'd  employ 
me,  only  I  won't  tie  myself  down  to  one  kind  of 
reading.  It  takes  months  to  tell  what  corner  to 
pick  for  a  cigar  store,  to  make  up  your  mind 
whether  the  crowd  is  a  tobacco  crowd  or  not.  Did 
you  know  that  a  smoker  will  never  cross  a  street 
to  make  a  purchase?  No,  sir;  he'll  see  a  shop 
across  the  way,  but  he'll  walk  along  until  he  strikes 
another  on  the  side  of  the  street  he  happens  to  be 
on.  The  same  way  with  ten-cent  stores.  You've 
got  to  find  a  ten-cent  crowd  and  then  you've  got  to 
add  that  crowd  and  reduce  it  to  hourly  averages. 
Every  other  calculation  in  the  deal — price,  rents, 
and  overhead — depends  on  your  being  right." 

"A  complicated  business,  but  I  begin  to  see  that, 
too,"  said  Norris.  "Nothing  but  averages  based 
on  observation." 

"That's  it,"  agreed  Jimmie.  'That's  all."  A 
smile  twisted  his  weak  mouth,  making  it  suddenly 
sagacious  and  firm,  a  fitting  companion  feature  to 
his  powerful  nose.  His  deep-set  eyes  twinkled  as 
though  in  reminiscence  of  the  depths  of  guile 
across  which  his  exposition  of  one  branch  of  his 
varied  profession  had  merely  skated.  The  girl 
came  in,  looked  around  rather  aimlessly  for  more 
work  to  do,  and  finding  none,  sat  down  gingerly 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 

Norris  arose  and  pushed  out  a  comfortably  deep 
armchair.     "Sit     here,"     he     said,     courteously. 
"You've  earned  a  rest." 
5 


64  RACKHOUSE 

Millie  stared  at  him.  A  flush  appeared  in 
blotches  on  her  sallow  cheeks.  "No,  thanks,"  she 
stammered. 

Jimmie  leaned  forward  and  spoke  sharply. 
"Didn't  you  hear  what  Blackie  told  you  to  do? 
Get  into  that  chair  and  lean  back." 

The  girl  obeyed  him  literally  and  with  surpris 
ing  alacrity.  "She  was  nervous,"  said  Jimmie, 
calmly,  to  Norris  and  in  a  softened  voice.  "Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  when  man  or  woman  refuses  an 
invitation  by  word  of  mouth,  it's  because  he  or 
she  is  nervous." 

Norris  frowned  thoughtfully.  "By  Jove  I 
you're  right.  That's  quite  true.  Jimmie,  have 
you  learned  all  you  know  since  you  quit 
teaching?" 

The  old  man  thought  for  a  moment,  his  brows 
drawn,  his  eyes  fastened  on  distant  recollection. 
"All  but  one  thing,"  he  said,  finally. 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Norris. 

"Before  I  took  the  road  on  that  day  I  told  you 
about,"  he  complied,  "I  had  learned  just  one  thing 
— that  everything  in  nature  feeds  on  something 
else.  We  all  know  that,  of  course,  but  only  one 
man  in  a  thousand  learns  it.  So  many  of  us  are 
taken  up  with  the  thought  of  being  eaten  that  we 
get  side-tracked  from  the  business  of  eating.  It's 
very  important  to  learn  one  thing.  Whenever  a 
man  is  made  or  ruined  suddenly,  it's  generally 
because  he's  found  out  that  he  has  learned  just 
one  thing." 

"So  your  whole  existence,"  said  Norris,  "piv- 


RACKHOUSE  65 

oted  on  the  abstract  thought  that  everything  in 
nature  feeds  on  something  else?" 

"Who  said  'abstract'?"  demanded  Jimmie. 
"Abstract  knowledge  never  boiled  a  potato. 
When  I  knew  that  I'd  learned  about  the  feeding 
process,  I  thought  for  lazy  days  and  weeks  on 
how  I  was  going  to  make  it  work.  I  had  two  hun 
dred  and  forty-two  dollars  when  I  started  out  to 
walk  east.  Why  did  I  walk  east?  Why  did  I  pick 
New  York?  Because  I  figured  that  the  easiest 
way  for  a  man  to  live  is  on  his  own  kind  and  there 
are  more  people  to  the  square  mile  on  the  island 
of  Manhattan  than  anywhere  else  in  the  white 
world." 

"You  passed  up  the  ancient  axioms  of  labor  and 
of  honesty  as  the  best  policy,"  interrupted  Norris. 

The  old  man  eyed  him  intently.  "As  a  rule," 
he  said,  quietly,  "any  axiom,  as  you  call  it,  any 
moss-grown  belief  or  shibboleth,  is  nothing  but 
a  shackle  of  the  mind.  You  were  thinking  of  the 
old  curse  of  the  sweat  of  a  man's  brow.  Piffle ! 
When  a  man  sweats,  it's  a  sure  sign  some  one  is 
living  on  him,  eating  him  alive.  As  for  honesty 
as  the  best  policy,  I  believe  in  it  and  practice  it 
only  because  I  make  money  out  of  it." 

"So  you  just  made  up  your  mind,"  persisted 
Norris,  "to  feed  honestly  on  people  and  traveled 
east?" 

"It  wasn't  quite  so  simple  as  that,"  replied 
Jimmie,  his  eyes  beginning  to  glow  from  an  inner, 
suppressed  ardor.  "I  had  to  think  first  of  some 
class  of  people  that  no  one  else  was  feeding  on.  I 


66  RACKHOUSE 

had  no  illusions  as  to  my  mental  equipment.  I  de 
spised  a  backwoods  professor  with  an  intensity 
which  you  can  scarcely  imagine.  But  I  had  got  my 
teeth  into  one  truth,  by  God!  and  I  hung  on  till  it 
dragged  me  out  of  a  living  grave." 

Norris  and  the  girl  both  gazed  on  him  with  sud 
denly  awakened  wonder.  He  seemed  to  have  as 
sumed  new  proportions.  There  was  nothing  of 
a  suggestion  of  having  reverted  to  his  old  self,  to 
an  abandoned  self-respect.  Far  from  it.  What 
they  saw  was  the  glimmering  of  the  man  he  was 
to-day  shining  momentarily  from  beneath  the  dis 
carded  mask  of  habitual  concealment.  He  was 
disclosed. 

"Kings  fed  on  millionaires,"  he  continued.  "I 
decided  to  feed  on  beggars,  hawkers,  and  fakers, 
on  collectors  of  pennies  and  quick  money.  No 
body  had  ever  thought  of  living  off  beggars.  The 
idea  fascinated  me — sharpened  my  mind  to  a  cut 
ting  edge.  The  more  I  thought  it  out,  the  more 
varied  were  its  possibilities.  You  wouldn't  think 
that  sort  of  people  would  pay  me  for  changing 
money  for  them  when  somewhere  else,  if  they  took 
enough  trouble,  they  could  change  it  for  nothing? 
Ha!  the  world!  Impulses.  The  human  mind! 
Fears!  The  cringings  of  the  poor!  The  dodges 
of  the  shrewd  I  I  have  two  offices — just  a  counter, 
a  pair  of  scales,  and  a  safe — one  on  Second  Ave 
nue,  the  other  off  Washington  Street,  one  open  for 
an  hour  in  the  early  morning,  the  other  late  at 
night." 

He  paused,  and  Norris,  fingering  the  money  in 


RACKHOUSE  67 

his  pocket,  asked  a  question.  "Do  you  charge  them 
all  alike?" 

Jimmie  gave  him  the  level  look  with  which  one 
man  measures  another  when  he  feels  the  impulse 
to  bring  on  a  test  of  individual  fiber  and  a  read 
justment  of  personal  estimates.  "No;  oh  no  I"  he 
said.  "There  are  some  I  charge  the  lowest  coin 
made.  They  are  the  honest  but  dull — the  ones 
that  will  pay  the  irreducible  minimum  for  the  loan 
of  a  brain  they  can  trust.  There  are  some  who 
pay  more  because  I  save  them  a  bigger  nuisance. 
They  know  enough  to  know  that  it  pays  them  time 
to  pay  money.  Then  come  the  straight  but 
shrewd — the  chaps  with  brains  enough  to  have 
struck  a  layer  of  paying  dirt  they  don't  want  too 
many  people  to  know  about.  Ha !  They  hate  to 
do  it,  but  they  pay  my  price — a  thickish  price. 
Then  come  the  shady  ones,  the  fakers,  the  people 
with  something  to  hide.  They  pay  and  never 
murmur — fifteen  cents  on  pennies,  ten  on  nickels 
and  dimes." 

It  took  a  second  of  silence  for  the  full  import  of 
those  final  words  to  sink  into  Norris's  conscious 
ness.  During  that  instant  he  found  time  to  feel  a 
sensation  of  panic  and  regret,  of  self-recrimination 
for  having  so  lightly  abandoned  the  refuge  of  his 
black  mask.  A  flush  of  anger  and  shame  which 
he  could  not  hide  swept  up  from  his  neck  and 
across  his  face.  It  drove  him  to  accept  the  chal* 
lenge. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  bluster 
ingly.    "Are  you  classing  me  as  a  crook?" 


68  RACKHOUSE 

Abandoning  his  cheap  brand  of  ready-made 
cigarettes,  Jimmie  fished  tobacco  and  papers  from 
his  overcoat  pocket  and  started  to  roll  a  pale- 
yellow  whiffler.  This  action,  could  Norris  but 
have  known  it,  was  the  old  man's  outward  sign  of 
nervous  but  unafraid  tension.  Just  as  one  man 
laughs  aloud  in  a  moment  of  stress  and  another 
coughs  or  picks  his  nose — all  without  fear,  but 
by  an  individual  habit  of  concentration — so  Jim 
mie  rolled  a  home-made  cigarette. 

"Crook?"  he  repeated,  calmly,  without  looking 
up.  "Did  I  say  crook?  No,  I  didn't.  A  crook, 
with  us,  Blackie,  is  a  postgraduate,  a  man  with 
more  education  in  his  little  finger  than  you  have  in 
your  whole  head.  Don't  lose  your  goat,  son. 
You've  stepped  into  a  world  where  people  don't 
bother  to  keep  up  one  another's  hypocritical  ap 
pearance.  There's  the  same  difference  between  an 
impostor  and  a  crook  as  there  is  between  a  wop 
sewer  digger  and  a  skilled  mechanic.  You're  just 
a  faker." 

Norris  felt  the  flush  on  his  face  deepen.  His 
hands  closed  and  unclosed  in  the  age-long,  sub 
conscious  gesture  of  man  contemplating  murder — 
if  he  only  dared.  Jimmie  raised  his  eyes  slowly 
until  they  fastened  upon  those  hands.  There  they 
held  steadily.  Presently  a  smile  twisted  his  thin 
lips.  The  hands  had  relaxed;  they  hung  fallen 
from  the  wrists.  With  that  indication  of  sur 
render,  Norris  turned  toward  the  girl  in  a  move 
ment  of  rebellion  and  appeal.  To  his  astonish 
ment,  her  unattractive  face  was  alight  with  some 


RACKHOUSE  69 

sudden  satisfaction.  She  gave  him  a  look  robbed 
of  the  last  vestige  of  shyness,  a  look  of  inclusion 
and  possession.  His  head  dropped. 

"Now  cut  that  out,  will  you?"  said  Jimmie,  in 
a  changed  tone  of  voice.  "Listen.  You  needn't 
be  a  faker  forever,  but  while  you're  at  it  be  a  man. 
Brace  your  shoulders.  It  isn't  the  road  we  travel, 
but  how  we  travel  it,  that  wins  the  heart  of  the 
world.  Pirates,  highwaymen,  and  even  a  mur 
derer  or  two  have  been  loved  just  for  a  trick  of 
manner.  Blackie,  you  act  as  if  four  hundred 
dollars  was  a  mountain  of  money.  When  I  said  I 
was  coming  into  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand 
you  thought  I  was  crazy,  now  didn't  you?" 

Norris  nodded.  "Of  course,"  he  muttered,  "or 
joking." 

"Neither  crazy  nor  joking,  son,"  said  Jimmie, 
solemnly,  as  he  drew  close  to  Norris's  ear,  "and 
if  you've  got  the  nerve  I  think  you  have  you  can 
halve  that  income  or  double  it.  Pikers  wallow  in 
the  crime  wave  for  coppers  and  dimes,  but  a  man 
to-day  can  ride  its  crest  for  a  million." 

"I've  forgotten  my  Greek,"  remarked  Norris, 
his  face  hardening.  "Talk  English." 

"Not  to-night,"  said  Jimmie,  with  a  shrug.  He 
raised  his  arms,  stretched,  and  started  toward  the 
back  door.  "Cheer  up,  Blackie,"  he  said,  aloud, 
in  parting.  "Learn  to  play  one  game  at  a  time. 
See  you  to-morrow.  Come  along,  Millie." 

They  went,  the  latch  of  the  door  locking  with 
a  click  behind  them.  For  several  minutes  Norris 
continued  to  sit  with  bowed  head;  then  he  arose, 


70  RACKHOUSE 

put  out  the  lights,  and  started  to  grope  toward 
the  bedroom.  His  hand  touched  the  hurdy-gurdy 
and  he  stopped.  He  did  not  know  how  long  he 
had  been  standing  thus  in  the  dark  when  there 
came  a  quick,  low  knock  on  the  front  door. 

"Roddy!  Are  you  there?"  It  was  Rockman 
speaking.  "There's  no  one  in  the  whole  street, 
Roddy."  The  knock  sounded  again  and,  after 
an  interval,  once  more. 

"That's  strange,"  said  Ruth  Ardsley's  low 
voice.  "I  thought  I  saw  lights  as  we  turned  the 
corner." 

Norris's  bowed  head  flew  up.  He  made  a  half 
turn  toward  the  door.  Then  his  left  hand  stole 
into  the  trousers  pocket  where  he  had  stowed  the 
hundred-dollar  notes  which  he  had  received  in 
exchange  for  his  takings  of  the  day.  He  could 
hear  Ruth  move  forward  and  the  swish  of  her 
cloak  against  the  panel  of  the  door.  She  knocked, 
put  her  lips  close  to  the  keyhole  and  called, 
"Roddy,  dear.  Are  you  awake?" 

He  left  the  support  of  the  hurdy-gurdy  and, 
moving  carefully  forward,  reached  out  to  throw 
open  the  door.  He  could  feel  a  smile  coming  to 
his  dry  lips,  not  easily,  but  cracking  its  way,  as 
though  it  were  breaking  through  parchment.  He 
switched  on  the  lights,  opened  the  door  and,  stand 
ing  behind  it  to  avoid  discovery  by  any  chance 
passer-by,  let  them  in  and  quickly  closed  it. 

"Were  you  asleep?"  asked  Ruth,  and  then 
rushed  on  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  "Oh, 
Roddy,  how  wonderful!  How  they  answered  to 


RACKHOUSE  ^l 

the  cry!  My  heart  is  so  full — it's  never  been 
quite  so  full  before,  not  even  in  the  biggest  days 
of  giving  in  the  war !  People  are  alive — near 
to  us,  after  all.  Hearts  truly  beat  behind  a  million 
masks,  faith  lives  on  in  hidden  places,  the  tide 
of  mercy  ebbs  but  never  dies  1" 

"Pathos,  humor,  mystery,"  murmured  Rock- 
man,  with  a  happy  smile,  "and  you,  Roddy.  You 
were  masterly.  I  didn't  guess  the  size  of  the  job 
you  were  taking  on.  None  of  us  did.  And  the 
way  you've  handled  it!  You  are  a  revelation! 
You've  knocked  the  wind  out  of  us  I  Who  would 
have  guessed  you  had  it  in  you?" 

They  sat  down,  and  for  half  an  hour  Ruth  and 
Rockman  chatted  excitedly  over  the  events  of  the 
day,  while  Norris  remained  silent,  though 
patently  interested.  All  through  the  happy  post 
mortem  he  was  uneasy,  gripping  the  money  in  his 
pocket,  thinking  that  soon,  at  any  moment,  they 
must  ask  how  much  he  had  collected  and  wonder 
ing  vaguely  what  he  would  answer.  Somehow 
these  two  old  and  dear  friends  seemed  total 
strangers,  visitors  from  another  world.  He 
fought  desperately  to  force  himself  back  into  that 
world,  but  in  a  single  day  too  much  of  action, 
emotion,  and  clinking  fact  had  heaped  up  in  be 
tween.  Strain  as  he  might,  he  could  not  leap  the 
pile  or  even  see  over  it.  At  last  it  came,  the  ques 
tion  for  which  he  had  been  waiting. 

"What  did  you  take  in,  Roddy?" 

"You'd  be  surprised,"  answered  his  voice, 
promptly.  "Almost  a  hundred." 


72  RACKHOUSE 

He  heard  the  words  from  an  immeasurable 
aloofness,  dropping  like  pebbles — one  by  one — 
from  an  unseen  hand.  Ruth  and  Rockman  talked 
easily  of  other  things,  but  he  sat  on  in  a  silence 
grown  terrible.  What  had  he  said?  What  had 
he  done?  He  crushed  the  bills  in  his  pocket  into 
a  tight,  moist  wad,  held  to  them  desperately  as 
one  who  clings  to  a  solid  spar  through  the  blind 
ing  spindrift  of  a  sudden  storm. 

"You  poor  Roddy,"  said  Ruth,  at  last.  "How 
tired  you  must  be  and  how  thoughtless  of  us  to 
keep  you  up !" 

They  went,  but  even  after  the  sound  of  their 
footsteps  had  died  away  Norris  continued  to  sit, 
possessed  by  an  absorbing  speculation.  His 
thoughts  followed  Ruth  along  a  familiar  road, 
through  scenes  held  in  common  by  their  girlhood 
and  boyhood.  He  saw  her  enter  the  spacious 
corner  house  in  Seventeenth  Street,  with  its  wide 
hall  and  wider  reception  rooms — the  parlor,  the 
dining  room,  and  the  library  all  en  suite,  the  last 
with  its  long,  narrow  balcony  of  scrolled  iron 
work  overlooking  a  spot  of  greenness  in  which 
stood  a  persisting  ailanthus  tree  of  odorous  mem 
ory.  How  well  he  knew  that  house !  Against 
his  childhood's  days  it  had  held  no  privacies;  even 
Ruth's  bedroom,  in  the  innocence  of  youth,  had 
been  revealed  by  more  than  one  chance  glimpse. 

He  saw  it  now,  but  as  though  across  a  million 
years,  pictured  it  in  detail,  down  to  the  splash- 
cloth,  embroidered  with  R.  A.  in  great,  sprawling 
initials,  behind  the  washstand  and  to  the  round 


RACKHOUSE  73 

mahogany  table  at  the  window  where  Ruth  had 
done  her  homework  while  he  made  faces  at  her 
from  a  perch  in  the  hardy  tree.  He  remembered 
the  testerless  three-quarter  bed,  virginal,  prim  in 
its  day  dress  of  white  coverlet  and  old-fashioned, 
snowy-ruffled  pillow  shams,  and  with  its  mahogany 
posts  rising  in  slender  spindles  which  stood  eter 
nal  guard  at  the  four  corners.  How  far  away! 
A  million  years  away.  He  drew  his  hand  from 
his  pocket,  stared  at  it,  opened  the  crushed  bank 
notes,  smoothed  and  counted  them. 


Chapter  IV 

y  I  ''HERE  are  several  thousand  people  in  the 

•*•  city  of  New  York,"  said  Jimmie,  on  the  fol 
lowing  evening,  "who  make  a  living  out  of  try 
ing — trying,  mind  you — to  get  stuff  on  the  front 
page  of  the  newspapers  for  nothing.  For  one 
hit  out  of  a  hundred  shots,  they're  kept  on  the 
payroll  for  a  year,  and  if  they  can  prove  that 
percentage  to  be  their  batting  average,  it's  as 
good  as  a  pension  for  life." 

"Well?"  said  Norris,  rather  vaguely.  He  was 
tired.  He  didn't  know  that  a  man  could  get  so 
tired  from  merely  standing  beside  a  hurdy-gurdy 
for  nine  hours  and  working  his  arm  like  a  sema 
phore  every  time  a  passer-by  dropped  a  contri 
bution  in  the  hat. 

"I  watched  you  to-day  harder  than  I  did  yester 
day,  Blackie,"  continued  the  old  man,  with  ap 
parent  irrelevance,  "but  for  a  different  reason. 
You're  a  strong  man,  much  stronger  than  anyone 
would  expect  one  of  your  loafing  class  to  be,  but 
if  I  hadn't  taken  charge  of  your  organ  and  packed 
you  off  to  lunch  when  I  did,  you'd  have  fainted 
on  the  way  home." 

Norris  had  slumped  into  a  chair  the  moment 
the  door  of  the  little  apartment  in  Smudge  Alley 


RACKHOUSE  75 

closed  on  them.  Jimmie  had  accompanied  him 
home  and  even  helped  haul  the  hurdy-gurdy  part 
of  the  way,  swearing  softly  under  his  breath  at 
Millie  for  not  being  on  the  job.  It  would  never 
have  occurred  to  Norris  that  just  because  on  the 
first  day  of  his  madcap  venture  a  strange  girl 
had  taken  pity  on  him  to  the  extent  not  only  of 
assisting  in  trundling  his  organ,  but  of  making 
his  bed  and  cooking  his  supper,  she  should  do  the 
same  on  the  second  day  and  for  an  indefinite 
sequence  of  days  thereafter.  But  Jimmie  looked 
at  the  case  with  a  totally  different  pair  of  eyes. 
Twelve  years  of  living  through  his  wits  on  what 
he  saw  had  taught  him  to  swallow  a  fact  whole 
when  it  came  his  way. 

He  was  not  concerned  with  vain  speculations 
as  to  whether  the  girl  had  assumed  an  obligation 
or  not.  All  that  mattered  to  him  was  that  he  had 
summed  up  Millie  as  one  of  that  peculiar  class 
among  women  who  succumb  utterly  to  service, 
without  pay  and  without  ulterior  motive,  becom 
ing  devotees  through  a  sort  of  inarticulate  hunger. 
He  would  not  have  said  that  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  Norris,  but  that  she  had  attached  her 
self  to  him  with  much  the  same  allegiance  as  a 
stray  dog  sometimes  picks  for  life  on  a  new  master. 
He  swore  more  at  the  apparent  failure  of  his 
deduction  than  at  the  inconvenience  of  her  ab 
sence,  and,  as  a  consequence,  he  had  given  a  loud 
grunt  of  satisfaction  when,  upon  arrival  at  their 
destination  in  Smudge  Alley,  they  had  found  her 
waiting  at  the  door. 


76  RACKHOUSE 

She  had  spoken  immediately,  as  though  in  an 
swer  to  the  old  man's  thoughts.  "I  had  the  late 
shift  to-day." 

They  entered  together  as  upon  the  previous 
evening,  and  Norris  was  no  sooner  in  his  chair 
than  the  girl  was  at  him  to  make  him  take  off  his 
things  and  free  his  left  arm.  She  had  none  of 
the  smiling  finesse  of  the  ideal,  book-learned  help 
mate,  no  soothing,  practical  words  of  pity  for  the 
tired  male.  To  her  mind  it  was  highly  proper 
that  people — excepting  herself — should  be  ex 
hausted  at  that  hour  of  the  day.  She  attended 
him  gravely,  without  shyness,  and  ordered  him 
to  lie  down  on  the  couch;  but  before  he  would 
consent  to  obey  he  had  gone  into  the  bedroom, 
washed,  and  changed  into  a  clean  shirt  and  his 
civilian  clothes. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jimmie,  when  Norris  had  re 
turned  and  stretched  himself  at  full  length. 
"Thousands  of  people  make  their  living  slinging 
things,  hit  or  miss,  at  the  front  page  of  the  press. 
And  you  did  it.  You  hit  the  bull's-eye  with  your 
black  mask  and  a  monkey  and  the  whole  weight 
of  a  barrel  organ.  In  two  days  you've  become  the 
Babe  Ruth  of  the  press  agents  of  the  world." 

Norris  closed  his  eyes.  He  saw  again  the  one 
event  of  the  long  day.  Crowds.  No;  not  crowds 
— a  crowd,  in  single  file,  marshaled  by  policemen, 
kept  moving,  marching  by,  taking  one  look,  pay 
ing  for  it  with  a  coin,  and  passing  on.  Mystery, 
pathos,  and  humor  had  done  their  work  only  too 
well.  They  had  overshot  the  mark  of  the  public 


RACKHOUSE  77 

heart  and  hit  the  front  page  of  the  newspapers. 
The  hordes  of  to-day  were  not  like  the  people  of 
yesterday.  Yesterday,  from  behind  his  mask,  he 
had  seen  visions,  felt  qualms,  learned  truths,  held 
the  pulse  of  a  throbbing  world.  To-day  he  had 
taken  cold  tribute — amazing  tribute — from  the 
myriad  backers  of  the  slogan,  "It  pays  to  ad 
vertise." 

He  turned  his  head,  nodded  toward  the  organ, 
and  asked,  "How  much,  do  you  think?" 

Jimmie  lit  a  cigarette  with  deliberation,  glanced 
toward  the  bedroom  into  which  Millie  had 
promptly  disappeared,  and  murmured,  with  nar 
rowed  eyes,  "A  cool  thousand." 

Norris  stared  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  Pres 
ently  Jimmie  continued:  "It's  too  bad.  If  you 
hadn't  become  a  nine  days'  wonder,  the  graft 
wouldn't  have  been  so  big  and  sudden,  but  it 
would  have  lasted  longer — much  longer." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Norris.  "The 
hundred  thousand  a  year?" 

"Out  of  an  organ?"  sneered  Jimmie.  "Now 
it's  you  that's  crazy.  No;  nothing  like  that.  Yes 
terday,"  he  continued,  "when  I  offered  you  three 
hundred  dollars  blind,  for  what  you  had  taken,  it 
started  you  dreaming  and  figuring,  didn't  it? 
You  began  multiplying  three  hundred  by  thirty, 
and  nine  thousand  by  twelve.  Didn't  you?" 

Norris  flushed  and  nodded  his  head. 

"Well,"  continued  Jimmie,  "you  were  right  and 
you  were  wrong.  The  way  things  looked  yester 
day,  you  might  have  worked  this  town  all  through 


?8  RACKHOUSE 

the  spring  and  struck  a  two-hundred  average  for 
the  first  sixty  days  and  a  hundred  average  for  the 
two  months  after  that.  Eighteen  thousand  dol 
lars  for  four  months  with  a  hurdy-gurdy  sounds 
absurd.  It  is  absurd.  But  eighteen  thousand  as 
a  reward,  and  no  questions  asked,  to  the  brain 
that  could  think  out  your  combination  of  cripple, 
black  mask,  and  monkey,  is  nothing  at  all — a  mere 
sweat-shop  price  as  such  ideas  sell  in  the  open 
market.  You  hear  folks  talk  about  a  stroke  of 
genius.  Ha!  That's  just  what  you  are,  a  stroke 
of  genius,  the  sum  total  of  the  three  basic  elements 
that  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  successful  begging — 
pathos,  mystery,  and  humor." 

The  flush  on  Norris's  cheeks  deepened  so  mark 
edly  as  to  attract  Jimmie's  attention.  The  old 
man  could  not  know  what  memories  of  others' 
stolen  labors  his  words  evoked  nor  what  a  pic 
ture  of  clean  and  earnest  faces  had  arisen  out  of 
the  past  to  take  a  sudden  pose  of  accusation. 
Rockman,  eager  to  do  one  more  mad  thing,  even 
by  proxy;  Dick  Page,  young  enough  to  eat  visions 
for  his  daily  bread;  Cullom  and  Bronk,  under 
standing  nothing,  yet  in  on  the  game  because  some 
one  they  trusted  led  them;  and,  above  all,  Ruth — 
Ruth  Ardsley,  carried  out  of  herself  and  lifting 
others  to  the  search  for  the  sources  of  compas 
sion!  Only  he,  Roderic  Norris,  had  lagged  be 
hind!  And  to  what  purpose?  Where  was  he 
now?  Where  was  he  going? 

"Bah !"  said  Jimmie,  misreading  Norris's  ab 
straction.  "Your  thin  skin  makes  me  tired.  What 


RACKHOUSE  79 

if  I  did  say  begging?  Aren't  you  a  beggar — a 
superbeggar?  Forget  it.  As  I  was  saying,  the 
straight  play  of  your  big  idea  might  have  lasted 
a  long  time.  If " 

"If  what?"  asked  Norris,  filling  in  the  pause 
rather  too  eagerly,  as  though  to  force  his  mind 
out  of  the  path  of  reminiscence  and  back  to  a  con 
suming  present. 

"If  you  hadn't  put  it  across  to  the  front  page 
of  the  newspapers,"  concluded  Jimmie.  "Yester 
day  you  were  touching  hearts;  to-day  you've  been 
just  touching  pockets.  Yesterday  you  were  min 
ing  true  gold;  to-day  you've  been  coining  silver. 
Yesterday  you  were  an  emblem,  a  reminder,  a 
focusing  point  for  a  thousand  vague  impulses  of 
compassion;  to-day  you  were  the  best-advertised 
side  show  in  town — admission,  ten  cents  for  tight 
wads,  and  no  limit  for  splurgers  taking  a  flurry 
in  the  face  of  the  admiring  public  eye.  Great  busi 
ness  while  it  lasts,  but  it  won't  last." 

It  took  them  a  long  time  to  count  the  money 
that  night,  and  when  they  were  done  Norris  found 
himself  the  richer  by  $978.  Jimmie  had  been 
right;  the  organ  had  disgorged  something  over 
the  thousand  he  had  estimated.  The  weight  of 
the  small  change  was  more  than  he  could  con 
veniently  carry  in  one  load.  He  half  filled  his 
canvas  bag,  weighed  it  carefully,  and  went  out  to 
dispose  of  the  contents.  As  he  left  he  said,  over 
his  shoulder,  "I'll  be  gone  the  best  part  of  an 
hour." 

For  the  first  time,  Norris  found  himself  quite 
6 


8o  RACKHOUSE 

alone  with  Millie.  He  glanced  at  her  casually 
and  wondered  what  they  could  talk  about.  Jim- 
mie  was  an  inexhaustible  mine  of  conversation,  a 
deep  well  of  pregnant  information.  Norris  could 
not  imagine  ever  being  bored  by  him.  But  this  girl 
was  different — close  mouthed,  unyielding  even  in 
service,  watchful  only  of  external  things.  He 
could  easily  have  picked  up  one  of  Page's  books, 
plunged  into  it,  and  forgotten  her  along  with  the 
furniture  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  eyes. 

Upon  Jimmie's  departure,  they  seemed  to 
awaken  slowly  and  to  assume  a  smoldering  glow. 
They  watched  him  intently,  studied  his  face,  his 
deportment,  drove  him  deliberately  into  personal 
consciousness.  They  told  him  silently  that  she 
had  no  intention  of  being  forgotten  along 
with  the  furniture;  not,  at  least,  until  they  had 
put  him  through  his  paces,  submitted  him  to 
the  test  of  answering  their  unswerving  gaze. 
Without  at  all  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  he 
accepted  their  challenge  and  studied  the  girl 
as  though  he  were  looking  upon  her  for  the 
first  time. 

He  examined  her  straight  hair,  which  was  of  a 
shade  between  yellow  and  brown,  her  sallow  face, 
her  angular  figure,  thin  legs,  and  badly  shod  feet; 
finally  he  came  back  to  her  intent  eyes  and  met 
them  squarely.  There  was  no  judgment  in  his 
look;  only  apathy.  Throughout  his  study  of  her 
there  had  been  no  single  note  which  could  awaken 
the  gleam  with  which  the  predatory  eye  of  man, 
ever  intent  upon  making  excuses  for  a  woman's 


RACKHOUSE  81 

lack  of  charm,  greets  the  discovery  of  a  pleasing 
contour. 

The  girl  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself.  "Not 
much  to  look  at,  am  I?"  she  asked,  with  a  short 
laugh,  which,  nevertheless,  bore  no  malice. 

"Why,  Millie!"  exclaimed  Norris,  realizing  the 
trap  into  which  he  had  been  led.  "You  shouldn't 
say  a  thing  like  that.  You're  a  very  nice-looking 
girl.  Of  course  you  are." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  sneered,  not  at  him  but  at  her 
self.  "Of  course.  Of  course  I  oughta  go  in  for 
the  next  beauty  show  that  comes  along.  I  know, 
Blackie.  I'm  safe  at  nights  going  home,  all  right, 
all  righty.  That's  something,  ain't  it?  I  ought 
to  be  glad  that  nobody  will  ever  try  any  strong- 
arm  stuff  for  the  sake  of  a  kiss." 

Norris  moved  nervously  and  started  to  speak, 
but  she  forestalled  him.  "Forget  it!"  she  said, 
rising  and  looking  at  him  meaningly.  "Forget  it 
forever.  Do  you  get  me?  Some  of  the  oranges 
is  spoiling,"  she  added,  in  her  former  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "There's  no  booze  in  the  joint;  not  a 
drop.  I'm  going  to  get  you  some  orange  juice  to  wet 
your  whistle.  You  can  read  one  of  them  books." 

"Oh,  don't  bother,"  said  Norris,  relieved. 
"Sit  down  again.  Let's  talk,  Millie.  I  don't  want 
to  read — I  couldn't.  What  day  is  it?  How  long 
have  I  been  here?" 

"It's  Thursday,"  said  the  girl,  practically. 
"You  been  here  one  night,  but  you've  worked  two 
days.  The  first  days  is  always  the  longest  and 
hardest." 


82  RACKHOUSE 

With  that  the  conversation  lagged,  halted  for 
three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Norris  was  dozing 
when  Jimmie  returned.  He  did  not  hear  Millie 
go  to  open  the  door,  but  presently  the  clinking  of 
coins  aroused  him  to  another  faint  jolt  of  shame. 
Jimmie  was  methodically  reweighing  the  money 
he  had  left  behind  and  checking  results  against 
the  memorandum  of  the  sum  he  had  taken  away. 
He  made  no  excuses  and  Millie  seemed  to  be  tak 
ing  no  umbrage.  To  such  as  they  caution  was 
caution  and  its  own  reward. 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock  by  the  time  Jimmie 
had  finished  his  task.  No  sooner  had  he  satisfied 
himself  that  the  money  due  him  was  all  there  and 
packed  it  into  his  canvas  bag,  than  there  came  a 
murmur  of  voices  and  a  discreet  tapping  on  the 
front  door. 

"It's  Rocksie  knocking,"  said  a  man's  voice. 
"Only  myself  and  Ruth." 

Norris's  mouth  immediately  hardened.  He  did 
not  know  all  the  reasons  why  he  wished  to  see 
neither  Rockman  nor  Miss  Ardsley,  but  he 
knew  that  they  were  many,  felt  that  they  were  in 
numerable.  However,  he  forced  himself  to  arise, 
started  toward  the  door,  and  then  turned  in  evi 
dent  exasperation  toward  Jimmie.  The  money 
changer  needed  no  further  explanation. 

"Your  friends?"  he  whispered.  "And  are  they 
wise  as  to  who  you  are?" 

Norris  nodded  an  emphatic  affirmative  answer 
to  both  questions. 

"Duck  out  of  the  back  door,"  breathed  Jimmie. 


RACKHOUSE  83 

"Come  back  in  half  an  hour.  I'll  guarantee  you'll 
find  them  gone." 

Norris  crept  out  noiselessly.  As  he  reached  the 
end  of  the  very  narrow  corridor  he  heard  Jimmie 
ask,  gruffly :  "Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  want  ?" 
He  sensed  the  throwing  open  of  the  front  door 
just  as  he  passed  out  of  the  back  one,  and  care 
fully  drew  it  shut  until  the  latch  clicked. 

Rockman  and  Miss  Ardsley  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  as  though  dazed  by  the  sudden  disclosure 
of  the  lighted  interior;  then,  in  response  to  an 
impatient  gesture  of  the  old  man  who  had  opened 
the  door  to  them,  they  crossed  its  threshold  and 
heard  it  slam  behind  them.  Jimmie  stood  before 
them  with  an  air  of  insolent  inquiry.  They  stared 
at  him,  at  Millie,  and  at  each  other.  Rockman 
was  the  first  to  recover  and  speak. 

"Where  is  Captain — Where  is  the  organ 
grinder?"  he  asked,  in  a  purposely  loud  tone. 
"We  have  something  we  wish  to  say  to  him." 

"You  mean  the  Black  Mask,"  said  Jimmie, 
nodding  his  white  head  senilely.  "We  calls  him 
Blackie.  Don't  we,  Millicent?" 

Millie  did  not  bother  to  back  him  up.  Norris 
having  escaped,  she  took  no  visible  interest  in  the 
old  man's  bit  of  play-acting.  Her  attention  was 
directed  elsewhere.  Her  eyes  did  not  even  see 
Rockman;  they  were  fastened  avidly  on  Miss 
Ardsley's  person.  The  more  they  looked  the 
more  they  seemed  to  ache  for  the  power  to  en 
venom  or  devour.  It  was  impossible  that  the 
woman  in  Ruth  should  fail  to  sense  the  implication 


84  RACKHOUSE 

of  challenge  in  the  girl's  bearing.  She  flushed 
slightly  and  committed  the  imprudence  of  a  mild 
attack. 

"Who  are  you,  may  I  ask?" 

"Sure,  you  can,"  replied  Millie,  assuming  a 
glacial  expression.  "Ask  till  you're  black  in  the 
face." 

"Now,  Millie,"  protested  Jimmie,  but  with  a 
contented  glint  in  the  depths  of  his  sunken  eyes, 
"be  perlite  to  the  lady,  and  to  the  gent,  too." 

"I'll  be  polite  to  'em,  all  righty,"  said  Millie, 
her  body  remaining  strangely  rigid.  "For  a  cent 
apiece,  I'll  slap  their  jaws." 

Jimmie  turned  toward  Rockman  with  a  gesture 
of  appeal. 

"What  can  you  do  with  a  girl  like  that?"  he 
asked.  "You  can't  hit  a  woman,  no  matter  how 
much  she  asks  for  it,  but  if  you  say  the  word, 
boss,  I'll  biff  her  one  just  to  teach  her  manners. 
I'll  do  it,  anyway." 

He  started  forward,  and  Rockman  caught  him 
by  the  arm,  apparently  just  in  time.  "Look  here," 
he  said,  "we  didn't  come  butting  in  looking  for 
unpleasantness  or  anything  of  that  sort.  We  are 
old  friends  of  the  Black  Mask,  as  you  call  him. 
We  know  who  he  is  and  we  just  want  to  talk  to 
him  a  bit.  Where  is  he?" 

"Gone  out,"  said  Jimmie.  "Changed  his 
clothes  and  went  out.  Said  he  had  a  supper  date 
at  the  Biltmore.  Search  the  place,  if  you  don't 
believe  me.  Nothing  here  his  friends  can't  see 
and  welcome." 


RACKHOUSE  85 

From  the  moment  of  being  worsted  by  Millie, 
Ruth  had  been  standing  quite  still  save  for  the 
rapid  rise  and  fall  of  her  breasts.  She  was  angry. 
She  could  not  remember  ever  having  been  so  angry 
before.  She  had  known  annoyance  and  displeas 
ure  many  times,  but  this  was  different.  She  felt 
vaguely  that  she  was  a  visitor  to  a  plane  where 
millions  of  people  live  and  die,  but  which  she  had 
never  before  quite  visualized.  Her  tongue,  loaded 
with  several  unspeakable  things,  held  in  leash 
with  difficulty,  quivered  behind  set  teeth,  and  her 
finger  nails  actually  tingled.  She  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  she  hung  by  a  hair  above  the  land  and 
the  flesh  pots  of  Billingsgate  and  the  realization 
that  the  sensation  was  one  of  breathless  anticipa 
tion,  suddenly  brought  her  to  her  senses  along  the 
highway  of  humor. 

She  smiled.  She  smiled  at  Millie,  at  Jimmie, 
at  Rockman,  and  at  the  monkey,  chattering  ex 
citedly  in  his  cage.  Then  her  eyes  wandered 
around  the  apartment  methodically,  taking  in 
every  effect  and  every  detail.  They  missed  noth- 
thing,  and  when,  finally,  they  came  to  the  table, 
they  were  arrested  for  a  single  instant  by  a  bunch 
of  keys. 

"Wouldn't  you  think,"  she  asked,  sweetly  and 
still  smiling,  "that  if  the  Black  Mask  had  really 
gone  to  the  Biltmore  for  supper  he  would  have 
taken  his  keys  with  him?" 

A  shadow  of  annoyance  crossed  Jimmie's  brow, 
but  before  he  could  think  of  a  satisfactory  re 
joinder  Millie  spoke.  "Why  should  he,"  she 


86  RACKHOUSE 

asked,  slowly  and  distinctly,  "with  me  always  here 
to  let  him  in?" 

Ruth  received  the  full  force  of  the  blow.  Her 
face  sobered  and  turned  pale.  "Come,  Rocksie," 
she  said.  "Let's  go." 

"Not  in  the  face  of  that  foul  shot,"  said  Rock- 
man,  trying  to  suppress  his  anger.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  that  of  Roddy.  There's  dirty  work  doing 
here  and  we  might  as  well  clean  it  up." 

It  was  Jimmie's  turn  to  show  vexation.  His 
heavy  brows  drew  to  a  peak  above  his  parrot  beak 
of  a  nose.  "Not  so  free  with  your  dirty  work, 
please,"  he  said,  hastily  taking  out  tobacco  and 
papers  and  starting  to  roll  a  cigarette.  "When 
you  came,  there  were  three  people  here  minding 
their  own  business ;  now  there  are  only  two.  Ha  ! 
D'you  get  that?  Do  you?" 

Rockman  gave  him  a  shrewd  look,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  gauge  the  truth  not  only  of  the  old  man's 
intrinsic  words,  but  of  their  inference.  He  re 
membered  the  experience  of  the  previous  evening 
when  both  he  and  Ruth  had  felt  sure  of  Norris's 
presence  behind  the  locked  door,  but  had  had  to 
wait  long,  uneasy  moments  before  it  had  opened 
to  them.  Again  to-night  they  had  had  to  wait. 
He  admitted  to  himself  that  possibly  the  parrot- 
nosed  stranger  was  not  distorting  the  facts.  It 
was  probable  that  Norris  had  been  there  upon 
their  arrival  but  a  few  minutes  before.  It  was 
virtually  certain  that  he  was  gone.  Why?  What 
had  come  over  Roddy?  Was  it  something  con 
nected  with  Ruth  Ardsley? 


RACKHOUSE  87 

The  trouble  he  was  feeling  showed  in  his  face 
and  made  him  indecisive.  He  was  puzzled,  and 
when  a  man  is  puzzled  his  limbs  are  apt  to  be 
paralyzed.  He  might  have  stood  indefinitely  star 
ing  at  nothing  in  particular  had  it  not  been  for 
Ruth.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  drew 
him  toward  the  door.  "It's  no  use,  Rocksie,"  she 
said.  "I  want  to  go." 

Jimmie  let  them  out  and  then  returned  in  silence 
to  the  seat  beside  the  table  which  he  had  been 
occupying  all  evening.  He  was  an  old  man  and 
he  was  tired;  it  also  irked  him  to  think  that  in  the 
face  of  the  late  hour  he  still  had  to  carry  a  large 
sum  of  money  to  safety.  He  began  to  fidget  in 
his  chair,  and  at  the  end  of  five  minutes  arose 
and  was  about  to  depart  without  a  word  of  ex 
planation,  when  he  chanced  to  look  at  Millie. 
Something  in  her  expression  and  demeanor  ar 
rested  him.  His  oft-vaunted  powers  of  percep 
tion  were  not  a  pose,  but  a  mania.  Any  puzzle  in 
human  equations  immediately  absorbed  him  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  minor  wants  and  curiosities. 
Millie  presented  such  a  puzzle,  and  he  promptly 
sat  down  again  to  solve  it. 

From  the  moment  of  Miss  Ardsley's  advent 
the  girl  had  not  moved  a  muscle.  She  had  been 
sitting  hunched  back  in  a  deep  chair,  knees 
crossed  and  hands  gripping  her  forearms.  She 
was  still  sitting  in  the  same  posture,  but  in  spite 
of  the  rigidity  which  seemed  to  have  taken  an 
indeterminate  possession  of  her  limbs,  her  face  and 
eyes  gave  the  impression  of  a  humming  dynamo. 


88  RACKHOUSE 

She  was  thinking,  and  she  was  thinking  hard. 
Jimmie  went  carefully  over  the  events  of  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour,  giving  especial  attention  to 
the  laconic  participation  in  the  conversation  by 
Millie.  Why  had  she  reacted  so  against  the 
lovely  girl  who  had  come  in  search  of  the  Black 
Mask?  When  he  thought  he  knew,  a  quizzical 
smile  drew  his  lips  and  he  began  to  speak,  not  as 
though  transmitting  information,  but  in  the  man 
ner  of  one  who  wishes  to  crystallize  his  own 
impressions. 

"The  girls  of  Manhattan,  Millie,"  he  began, 
"are  divided  into  two  shifts — those  who  work 
and  those  who  don't.  The  workers  range  from 
the  girl  way  down  who  works  a  sewing-machine 
pedal  for  a  dollar  a  day  to  the  girl  way  up  who 
works  her  father  for  a  new  Russian-sable  stole 
at  twelve  thousand.  All  the  workers  recognize 
one  another  as  members  of  the  same  guild." 

Thus  far  Millie  listened  without  batting  an 
eyelid ;  thus  far  and  no  further.  "Get  out  of  here, 
you  whitehead,"  she  remarked.  "I  want  to  think." 

"I  know,"  murmured  Jimmie,  coolly,  "and  I 
want  to  think  your  thoughts  with  you,  only  on  a 
higher  plane." 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  and  your  aeroplane," 
said  the  girl,  her  attention  already  wandering 
from  him. 

"But  once  in  a  while,  Millie,"  continued  Jimmie, 
as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption — "once 
in  a  long,  long  while  a  girl  comes  along  who 
doesn't  work  anything  or  anybody,  who  cares  in- 


RACKHOUSE  89 

tensely  for  everything  but  herself,  and  shows  it 
in  her  face.  The  workers  can't  understand  that 
kind.  They  get  a  pain  from  just  looking  at  her. 
She's  the  stranger  in  the  household  of  humanity. 
Everybody  takes  something  away  from  her.  Ha  ! 
She's  the  white  blackbird!" 

"If  you  should  take  yourself  away  from  me," 
snapped  Millie,  "I  wouldn't  sob;  honest  I 
wouldn't." 

Still  with  the  quizzical  smile  on  his  lips,  Jim- 
mie  arose,  picked  up  his  bag  of  money,  and  de 
parted.  The  girl  continued  in  her  tense  pose 
until  she  heard  the  door  latch  behind  him,  and  then 
hurried  to  the  telephone.  She  called  up  one  number 
and  got  no  answer;  then  she  tried  another  and 
another  until  her  persistence  was  rewarded. 

"That  you,  Gladys?  .  .  .  Gee!  Glad,  I  had  a 
time  running  you  down.  .  .  .  Sure.  Millie. 
Whatch-you  doing?  .  .  .  Nothing?  Honest? 
Say,  I've  met  the  swellest  guy  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  I  guess  I'm  just  batty,  but  I've  simply  got 
to  show  him  to  somebody  or  I  can't  sleep.  .  .  . 
No.  No!  Not  that  kind.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  just  can't 
tell  you.  You'd  have  to  see,  and  then  you  would 
see.  See?  .  .  .  Yes.  Well,  if  you  really  want 
to.  Only  you  keep  your  hands  off  him.  Will  you 
promise?  .  .  .  All  right.  I  tell  you.  We'll  be 
at  Childs'  in  Forty-second  Street  in  about  half  an 
hour.  You  be  there,  too,  but  don't  let  on.  .  .  . 
All  righty.  Good-by." 

She  left  the  telephone,  went  to  the  mirror, 
prinked  herself  to  her  poor  best,  put  on  her  hat, 


90  RACKHOUSE 

picked  up  Norris's  keys,  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
"Everybody  takes  something  away  from  them," 
she  muttered.  "Well,  I'll  do  some  of  the  taking 
from  her."  It  was  only  a  few  minutes  before  she 
heard  a  scratching  at  the  back  door  and  hurried 
to  open  it. 

"Have  they  gone?"  whispered  Norris. 

"Yes,"  said  Millie.  "But  you  better  not  come 
in.  They  gone  away  quite  a  little  while  ago,  but 
they  said  they  was  coming  back  later.  We  pulled 
a  dumb-bell  play.  We  let  'em  see  your  keys 
lying  on  the  table.  Here  they  are;  take  them. 
Let's  walk  a  bit." 

She  handed  him  his  keys  and  led  him  east. 
They  crossed  Fifth  Avenue  and  presently  came  to 
Sixth,  where  the  girl  turned  north.  At  Forty- 
second  Street  she  stopped  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 
"Gee!"  she  exclaimed.  "A  cup  of  coffee  would 
sure  do  me  good.  Would  you  stand  me  a  cup  of 
coffee  over  at  Childs',  Blackie?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Norris,  rather  vaguely. 
"Anything  you  say." 

"Better  look  in  and  see  if  they's  anyone  you 
know,"  said  Millie  when  they  reached  the  glaring 
window  of  the  restaurant. 

"Why  should  I  worry?"  asked  Norris,  list 
lessly. 

The  girl  glanced  through  the  window.  "You 
never  can  tell  nowadays;  but  you're  right.  It's  a 
bit  early  for  swell  pick-me-up  parties.  Well, 
them  two  that  came  to  the  apartment  ain't  here, 
anyway.  Come  on  in." 


RACKHOUSE  91 

They  entered,  and  Millie  chose  a  seat  which 
placed  them  facing  a  young  girl  who  sat  alone  at 
the  next  table  but  one.  If  nature  had  molded 
her  two  sizes  larger  she  would  have  been  Aphro 
dite  in  a  very  smart  tailor-made  suit.  As  it  was, 
she  was  too  small  to  attract  instant  attention,  but 
once  the  eye  of  man  lingered  upon  her  it  was 
bound  to  discover  sooner  or  later  the  goddess 
of  love  in  miniature,  round  breasted,  full  lipped, 
and  with  a  skin  like  the  smoother  side  of  a  rose 
petal. 

"Some  pippin  in  front,  Millie,"  whispered 
Norris,  in  due  course. 

As  though  he  had  pressed  a  call  button,  the 
girl  looked  up,  and  so  did  Millie.  The  girl's  face 
opened  into  a  happy  smile  of  surprise.  So  did 
Millie's. 

"Hullo,  Gladys!" 

"Hullo,  Millie!" 

"You  all  alone?" 

"Yeah.  Just  came  in  for  a  cup  of  coffee  to  put 
me  to  sleep." 

"Same  here.     That's  what  we  done." 

A  pause.  Norris  touched  Millie's  arm  with  his 
elbow.  "Ask  her  over,"  he  murmured.  "No 
sense  her  sitting  all  alone." 

"My  friend  says,  'Come  on  over,'  "  said  Millie, 
obediently.  "No  sense  you  sitting  all  alone." 

"Shall  I?"  said  the  girl  and,  even  as  she  asked 
the  question,  arose,  took  up  her  cup,  and  complied 
with  the  invitation. 

"Miss  Gaylord,  meet  Mr.   Black,"   mumbled 


92  RACKHOUSE 

Millie,  in  the  accepted  formula  of  the  midworld. 
"Her  name  is  Gladys,"  she  continued,  more  natu 
rally,  "and  some  calls  her  Glad  and  some  calls  her 
Gay.  Don't  they,  Glad?" 

"They  sure  do,"  said  Miss  Gaylord,  with  a 
laugh,  "except  when  they  get  sloppy  and  make  it, 
"  'Little  Glad  and  Gay'  1" 

"She  is  kind  of  little,  ain't  she,  Blackie?"  asked 
Millie,  with  the  detachment  of  one  exhibiting  a 
doll. 

Norris  made  the  most  of  the  opportunity  thus 
thrust  upon  him.  He  studied  Miss  Gaylord  as 
a  whole  and  in  detail.  Her  hair  had  been  en 
dowed  apparently  from  infancy  with  a  wave  of 
its  own.  It  was  of  the  color  known  as  blonde 
cendree.  Her  eyes  were  blue  with  the  deep  hard 
blue  of  steel,  and  their  long  lashes  as  dark  as 
lampblack  could  make  them.  The  most  astonish 
ing  thing  about  her  was  the  absence  of  artificial 
pigment  from  her  lips  and  cheeks.  Evidently 
some  carnal  epicure  had  taught  her  to  respect 
the  marvelous  texture  of  her  skin.  Her  expres 
sion  was  so  demure  as  to  justify  the  opinion  that 
butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth.  One  glance 
at  it  would  have  told  Jimmie  volumes.  He  would 
have  said  at  once  that  here  was  a  superworker — 
one  from  whom  nothing  had  been  taken  since  the 
day  she  was  teethed. 

Norris  was  too  old  a  hand  to  be  stampeded  by 
mere  beauty,  however  concentrated,  but  he  was 
young  enough  to  see  fire,  know  it  for  fire,  and 
still  itch  to  play  with  it.  This  girl  awakened  no 


RACKHOUSE  93 

regrets  in  his  mind  for  a  higher  association  lost; 
if  anything,  she  dulled  them.  There  was  nothing 
about  her  to  set  a  man  thinking.  Her  entire  in 
fluence  was  sensatory  and,  without  analyzing  mo 
tive,  cause,  or  effect,  the  natural  impulse  was  to 
find  occasion  to  press  her  arm,  brush  her  cheek, 
touch  that  skin  at  any  price — within  reason. 

"Not  too  little  to  my  mind,"  he  answered,  when 
he  had  completed  his  survey.  "Just  about  the 
right  size  to  dance  with." 

"Oh,  do  you  dance?"  cried  both  girls,  in  one 
breath.  "My !  I  just  love  to  dance !" 

Norris  laughed  at  them.  "Nothing  like  try 
ing,"  he  said.  "Come  on.  Finish  your  coffee  and 
we'll  go." 

They  left  the  restaurant  and  sauntered  toward 
the  white  lights  of  Broadway.  Gladys  took  the 
lead.  She  suggested  the  Palais  Royal,  but  at  the 
very  door  Millie  balked. 

"Aw  no,  Glad!"  she  begged.  "I  ain't  dressed 
swell  enough  for  this  place.  Come  on  up  to  the 
Dream  Palace.  The  music's  grand  and  the  floor's 
as  big  as  all  outdoors.  Honest,  it  is." 

They  battled  for  five  minutes,  and  Norris  finally 
settled  the  dispute  according  to  his  own  secret 
inclination.  He  doubted  whether  he  would  chance 
on  anyone  of  his  acquaintance  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
but  if  there  was  a  dance  hall  of  less  ostentation, 
so  much  the  better.  "Let's  go  where  Millie  says," 
he  decided.  "After  all,  it's  her  party." 


Chapter  V 

HE  wondered  where  a  girl  as  unattractive  and 
as  humbly  situated  as  Millie  could  have 
learned  to  dance,  and  he  was  soon  to  find  out. 
Tickets  for  the  Dream  Palace  were  chopped  out 
in  the  manner  of  the  most  businesslike  movie 
theater.  For  $1.32  he  acquired  three  admissions 
and  nine  dance  coupons.  Within  was  a  capacious 
checking  room,  and  at  the  head  of  the  wide  stair 
way  a  large  lobby  well  stocked  with  lounging 
chairs  and  settees.  Beyond  the  foyer  was  a  rail, 
and  beyond  the  rail  an  enormous  dancing  floor 
with  a  full  orchestra  at  each  end.  A  long  row 
of  tables  bordered  the  rail,  which  was  cut  by  a 
single  wicket.  Through  this  gate  passed  all  the 
dancers,  each  surrendering  a  coupon.  Every  time 
the  music  stopped  the  floor  was  cleared.  There 
were  no  encores. 

Owing  to  Millie's  quick  eye  and  action,  Norris 
and  his  party  secured  one  of  the  coveted  tables, 
which  was  on  the  point  of  being  abandoned.  "You 
got  to  order  something,"  she  informed  him,  "and 
then,  long  as  you  leave  some  of  the  drink  in  the 
glasses,  the  table  is  ours." 

They  sat  down,  and  Norris  followed  her  sug 
gestion;  then  he  let  his  eyes  wander  curiously 


RACKHOUSE  95 

about.  "What's  the  window  over  there  with  the 
queue  lining  up?"  he  asked. 

"Tickets.  Dance  tickets,"  explained  Millie. 
"Five  cents  a  time  after  you've  used  up  the  three 
you  got  at  the  door." 

"And  that  bunch  of  girls  without  their  hats?" 

"Them's  instructresses,"  replied  Millie. 
"Twenty-five  cents  extra.  The  hostess  introduces 
you." 

"The  hostess?"  repeated  Norris,  a  trifle  dazed. 

"Sure,"  said  Millie.  "She's  a  swell  girl,  thin 
and  ladylike.  I'll  show  her  to  you  when  she  comes 
around.  Them's  the  instructors,"  she  added,  nod 
ding  toward  an  unassorted  group  of  the  male 
species.  "They's  twenty-five  cents  extra,  too. 
Some  of  them  dances  grand,  all  the  new  steps. 
Some  ain't  so  good.  You  got  to  watch  your  chance 
for  the  best  ones." 

"Can  anyone  here  ask  anyone  else  to  dance?" 

"Sure,"  repeated  Millie,  once  more.  "If  the 
girl  don't  want  to,  or  perhaps  she  dassn't,  she  can 
say,  No,  thank  you,  she's  waiting  for  her  partner, 
and  no  harm  to  nobody."  Her  face  softened  as 
she  added,  "Three  or  four  times  boys  has  ast  me. 
Sometimes  they  says  have  you  got  your  ticket,  but 
twice  they  paid." 

Her  eyes  suddenly  brightened.  She  smiled  and 
nodded  toward  the  throng.  "There's  one  of  them 
now,"  she  explained,  without  looking  at  her  com 
panions,  "and  he's  coming  over.  Give  me  my 
tickets,  Blackie.  Quick." 

Norris  thrust  all  the  tickets  he  had  received  at 

7 


96  RACKHOUSE 

the  entrance  into  her  outstretched  hand.  She  tore 
off  three  automatically,  returned  to  rest,  and  arose 
with  a  frank  eagerness  to  meet  the  casual  acquaint 
ance  of  some  former  night.  Presently  the  two 
who  remained  at  the  table  saw  the  couple  emerge 
on  the  floor.  Millie  danced  well.  Whatever 
hard-earned  money  she  had  paid  over  to  instruc 
tors  had  been  wisely  spent. 

"He's  a  good  guy,"  remarked  Gladys,  whose 
keen  eyes  had  penetrated  to  the  crowded  wicket. 
"He  didn't  let  her  use  her  ticket." 

Norris  appeared  not  to  have  heard  her.  He 
was  intensely  interested  in  what  was  going  on 
about  him — in  the  people,  the  system,  and  the 
general  effect  of  utility  on  a  large  scale  at  the 
cheapest  possible  price.  In  his  abstraction  he 
was  the  Roddy  Norris  of  old,  the  Norris  of  the 
luxurious  apartment  at  the  Royal  and  affluence, 
only  a  bit  stunned  at  having  stumbled  on  this 
Mecca  of  the  commonplace  in  the  very  heart  of 
his  native  city.  Nobody  had  to  tell  him  what 
and  who  these  people  were.  They  were  the 
lonely  and  the  unsought,  the  plain  girls  from  be 
hind  a  thousand  counters  and  ill-paid  clerks 
from  a  thousand  solitary  walks  of  life,  well 
behaved  without  being  well  bred,  meek  and 
grateful  in  exact  proportion  to  their  purses. 
They  flocked  solemnly  to  their  amusement  and 
consumed  it  as  practically  as  one  eats  unsweet 
ened  porridge. 

Gladys  reached  out  and  touched  his  arm  as 
though  to  recall  him.  He  looked  at  her  and  she 


RACKHOUSE  97 

quickly  dropped  her  eyes,  then  let  them  wander 
toward  the  dancing  floor. 

"You  poor  kid!"  said  Norris.  "Come  on. 
Let's  dance." 

She  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him.  Men  who  dance 
at  the  Dream  Palace  are  not  wont  to  say,  'you 
poor  kid,'  in  just  that  patronizing  shade  of  voice; 
they  know  better.  But  Gladys  scarcely  paused 
before  deciding  not  to  take  offense.  Her  prac 
ticed  ear  had  learned  something.  Her  eyes  nar 
rowed,  her  full  lips  smiled  as  if  at  a  word  of 
command,  and  she  arose,  but  stopped  to  draw 
off  her  gloves. 

The  floor  was  being  cleared.  On  the  way  to 
the  wicket  they  passed  Millie,  already  abandoned 
by  her  escort.  "Have  a  good  time,"  she  called, 
"I'll  hold  the  table." 

Norris  took  Gladys  in  his  arms  and  started  to 
dance.  Almost  instantly  he  lost  the  vague  sensa 
tion  of  being  a  social  Martian  on  a  visit  to  the 
cattle  pens  of  humanity  in  the  bulk.  He  forgot  the 
glare  of  the  white  lights,  the  pale  instructresses, 
and  the  pasty  instructors,  the  milling  throng  of 
the  commonplace,  and  even  the  wicket  opening  its 
inhospitable  bar  only  to  the  talisman  of  a  humble 
nickel.  Furthermore,  he  forgot  himself  com 
pletely  as  the  individual,  Roderic  Norris,  and  in 
the  same  breath  came  to  life  as  a  mechanism  of 
flesh  and  bone,  caught  into  the  minor  harmony 
of  matter  in  movement,  divorced  from  the  spirit, 
yet  subtly  elated. 

Gladys  was  a  flowing  dancer,  liquid,  buoyant, 


98  RACKHOUSE 

and  penetrating  as  warm  sea  water.  Without 
knowing  it,  she  represented  in  her  small  person 
the  apotheosis  of  the  physical.  She  was  not  sen 
suous  with  the  sensuality  that  makes  its  most 
deadly  appeal  through  the  imagination,  nor  did 
she  have  recourse  to  any  of  the  tricks  which  at 
tract  the  libidinous  smiles  of  the  crowd.  She 
simply  lived  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  body  be 
cause  she  hadn't  the  brains  to  climb  higher.  It 
was  instinct  and  instinct  alone  which  told  her  when 
to  sigh  happily,  when  to  cling,  when  to  administer 
the  quick  pressure  of  her  palpitating  body,  and 
when  to  draw  it  back  with  a  low  laugh.  When  the 
music  stopped  Norris  was  not  thinking,  or  calcula 
ting,  or  busy  with  speculations  as  to  the  person  and 
precedents  of  Miss  Gaylord;  he  was  quite  frankly 
absorbed  into  the  plane  of  rhythm  and  flesh. 

He  danced  once  with  Millie  out  of  a  sense  of 
decency,  but  during  the  few  minutes  they  were  on 
the  floor  his  eyes  kept  seeking  out  Glady's  small 
figure,  brought  into  noticeable  prominence 
through  being  left  alone  at  a  table  for  four.  Twice 
he  saw  men  approach  her,  only  to  be  denied  with 
a  finality  which  discouraged  others.  These  in 
cidents  gave  him  a  sensation  of  satisfaction  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  occasion.  He  did  not  stop 
to  reason  it  out.  He  did  not  picture  himself  as 
the  dog  in  the  manger  of  immortal  fable.  He 
only  knew  an  elemental  surge  of  content  that  no 
other  was  drinking  of  the  drugging  cup  he  had  so 
recently  held  to  his  own  lips.  When  Millie  spoke, 
she  puzzled  him. 


RACKHOUSE  99 

"Glad  is  certainly  one  nice  girl,  ain't  she?"  she 
asked,  following  his  eyes  and  apparently  in  no 
wise  offended  by  his  distraction. 

He  nodded.  For  an  instant  he  wondered  at 
her  generosity  and  even  felt  a  vague  pique  to  his 
vanity  at  being  so  lightly  surrendered.  In  his 
experience,  women  didn't  do  this  sort  of  thing. 
He  looked  down  into  Millie's  face.  It  was  not 
dreamy  under  the  influence  of  the  dance,  as  one 
might  have  expected  it  to  be;  it  was  alive,  pur 
poseful,  intent,  not  at  all  the  face  of  one  who 
takes  vicarious  pleasure  in  the  content  of  another. 
As  the  music  stopped,  he  gave  up  the  puzzle.  If 
Millie  had  a  scheme,  it  was  too  deeply  laid  for 
casual  penetration. 

He  danced  twice  more  with  Gladys,  and  after 
that,  as  the  three  were  sitting  at  the  table,  silent, 
each  absorbed  in  his  or  her  own  thoughts,  he 
became  uneasily  conscious  of  eyes  fastened  on  him 
from  far  away.  Finally  he  met  them.  They  were 
Cullom's  eyes,  filled  with  a  new  light,  a  sort  of 
amused  and  sardonic  comprehension.  The  ex- 
sergeant  was  slouching  in  one  of  the  wicker  chairs 
near  the  center  of  the  lounge,  in  a  lax  pose  which 
was  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  awkward  yet  soldierly 
bearing  he  had  been  wont  to  display  at  the  re 
unions  in  the  apartment  at  the  Royal.  Here  he 
was  very  much  at  home,  not  necessarily  as  a  par 
ticipant,  but  as  a  looker-on,  deliberately  thrusting 
his  loneliness  into  a  throng  of  people  he  could 
understand.  Without  knowing  it,  he  had  acquired 
a  complex  for  masses — masses  in  movement — and 


ioo  RACKHOUSE 

in  this  crowded  dance  hall  had  stumbled  upon  a 
miserable  prototype  of  his  desire.  Once  his  eyes 
had  forced  Norris's  to  meet  them,  he  changed  the 
direction  of  his  gaze  and  stared  fixedly  away. 

Norris  took  a  straw  from  a  glass  on  the  table 
and  began  to  break  it  nervously  into  little  pieces. 
He  was  troubled  by  what  he  had  seen  in  Cullom's 
face  and  by  the  knowledge  that  the  disclosure 
had  been  deliberate.  Shandy  had  looked  at  him 
not  as  sergeant  to  captain,  but  as  man  to  man, 
and  at  the  same  time  had  managed  to  convey  an 
impression  of  disillusionment  and  of  a  return  to 
the  earthiest  kind  of  earth  from  some  excursion 
into  a  childish  wonderland.  He  seemed  to  say, 
"Well,  here  we  are  in  the  muck  behind  the  scenes, 
all  masks  off,  and  you  is  just  you  and  me  is  me. 
Bah!" 

Color  swept  into  Norris's  cheeks.  He  had 
taken  this  sort  of  thing  from  Jimmie,  but  he  had 
no  intention  of  accepting  it  from  Cullom  without 
fighting  back.  He  arose,  walked  over  to  where 
the  longshoreman  was  sitting,  and  stopped  before 
him.  Some  instinct  warned  him  not  to  hold  out 
his  hand. 

"Good  evening,  Shandy,"  he  said.  "Come  on 
over.  I  want  you  to  meet  my  friends." 

The  ex-sergeant  did  not  spring  to  attention. 
He  continued  to  lounge  back  in  his  chair,  but 
looked  up,  his  lips  twisting  wryly,  his  eyes  gleam 
ing  as  though  they  toyed  with  the  idea  of  open 
revolt  and  insult.  There  is  only  one  way  to  meet 
such  a  look,  and  that  is  with  another,  loaded  with 


RACKHOUSE  101 

the  threat  of  a  fist  behind  it.  Norris  employed 
this  method  and  Cullom  was  enough  of  a  poker 
player  to  recognize  that  his  hand  was  being  called 
by  no  bluff.  He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet  and 
slouched  along  at  Norris's  side.  Norris  intro 
duced  him  as  Sergeant  Cullom. 

"Forget  the  sergeant  stuff,"  said  Shandy,  nod 
ding  shortly  in  acknowledgment  of  the  introduc 
tion  and  taking  a  chair.  "There  ain't  no  sergeants 
in  this  joint;  only  a  bunch  of  stiffs  and  a  lot  of 
cheap  skirts." 

Norris  was  surprised  that  the  girls  took  no 
offense.  They  accepted  Cullom's  remark  as  a 
mere  statement  of  fact  in  a  world  of  facts.  "Some 
grouch!"  cried  Gladys,  more  to  attract  attention 
to  herself  than  as  a  protest,  but  her  purpose  was 
defeated  by  the  passage  nearby  of  a  dancer  who 
had  forestalled  her  intention  of  cornering  the 
public  eye.  The  girl  in  question  was  as  bare  of 
clothes  as  the  lenient  law  allows,  and  danced  the 
Yiddish  gavotte  with  her  partner's  hand  held 
high,  her  shoulders  thrown  back,  her  head  affect 
edly  erect,  and  her  face  as  brazen  as  a  tin  cymbal. 
Every  movement  of  her  hips  and  legs  was  a  de 
liberate  challenge  to  comment.  On  her  extended 
arm  she  wore  an  amazing  display  of  bracelets. 

Millie's  eyes  narrowed  in  evident  distaste. 
"Bet  you  they  don't  let  her  go  twice  around  the 
hall,"  she  murmured. 

To  Norris's  amazement,  the  prediction  was 
fulfilled.  Some  person  in  authority  tapped  the 
brazen  girl's  partner  on  the  arm  and,  protesting 


102  RACKHOUSE 

shrilly  that  she  hadn't  done  anything  and  that  she 
had  been  a  fool  to  allow  herself  to  be  dragged 
into  such  common  surroundings,  she  was  hurried 
through  the  wicket  and  away  by  her  embarrassed 
escort. 

"They  don't  stand  for  that  sort  of  thing  here," 
said  Millie,  taking  pride  in  the  standards  of  her 
humble  haunt.  "We'd  better  be  moving,"  she 
added,  "or  you  boys  will  be  caught  in  the  rush  at 
the  check  room." 

They  arose  and  left  the  hall,  the  girls  leading 
the  way.  The  two  men  lagged  behind  in  silence, 
alone  together  in  the  crowd,  each  waiting  for  the 
other  to  speak.  Finally  Norris  said,  "Do  you 
still  need  that  fiver,  Shandy?" 

"A  fiver  1"  grunted  Cullom.  "Naw,  I  don't 
need  no  fiver." 

They  made  their  way  down  the  stairs  to  the 
check  room,  secured  their  coats  and  hats,  and 
presently  emerged  on  the  sidewalk,  whither  the 
two  girls  had  preceded  them.  Norris  detained 
Cullom  and  led  him  a  few  steps  away.  "Would 
twenty  be  any  good  to  you?"  he  asked. 

Cullom  stood  looking  down,  worrying  a  match 
on  the  pavement  with  his  toe.  The  expression  on 
his  face  was  at  first  open  and  angry,  as  though 
that  part  of  his  nature  which  was  noblest  and  of 
which  he  was  most  ashamed  had  been  outraged 
to  the  point  of  outcry.  But  gradually  the  long 
training  which  had  made  it  the  manly  thing  in 
his  set  to  sneer  at  every  manifestation  of  emotion 
got  in  its  work.  His  face  grew  shrewd  and  cal- 


RACKHOUSE  103 

dilating,  his  eyes  narrowed,  and  he  displayed  in 
the  rough  all  those  evidences  which  are  common 
to  every  human  countenance  when  a  man  deliber 
ates  on  his  own  price. 

"Make  it  a  hundred,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 
The  instant  the  words  were  past  his  lips  he  lost 
the  ascendancy  he  had  held  over  Norris  since  the 
moment  of  their  eyes'  first  encounter  on  that  eve 
ning.  He  glanced  up  anxiously.  Had  he  overshot 
the  mark?  Had  he  asked  too  little?  He  had  not 
pinned  any  definite  crime  on  his  former  leader; 
he  had  only  sensed  twice  that  something  was 
wrong — once  when  he  had  foreseen  that  the 
man  at  the  hand  organ  had  no  further  use  for 
his  old  friends,  and  again  to-night  when  he  had 
caught  him  in  what  appeared  to  be  questionable 
company. 

Norris's  shoulders  slowly  straightened.  He  ap 
peared  to  think,  to  hesitate  for  a  moment.  He, 
too,  was  playing  a  shrewd  game.  Inside  his  heart 
he  felt  a  mean  jubilation,  a  partial  rehabilitation, 
a  return  to  power  over  his  ex-sergeant,  but  to  a 
power  as  essentially  different  from  the  ancient 
spiritual  accord  as  is  the  lash  of  a  whip  from  the 
spurring  word  of  inspired  command.  In  one 
pocket  he  carried  twelve  one-hundred-dollar  bills; 
in  the  other  the  odd  money  he  had  received,  $160 
in  notes  of  smaller  denomination.  He  drew  out 
this  latter  roll,  counted  out  the  amount  demanded 
by  Cullom,  handed  it  to  him,  and  turned  away 
brusquely. 

Shandy's  eyes  had  been  quick  enough  to  see  that 


io4  RACKHOUSE 

he  had  received  over  half  the  roll.  Instantly  his 
mood  underwent  a  sharp  reaction.  He  seized 
Norris  by  the  arm  and  whirled  him  around.  "No, 
Cap,"  he  gasped,  thrusting  out  the  money.  "Take 
it  back,  every  damned  cent  of  it.  Give  me  a  fiver 
like  you  used  to  if  you  feel  like  it,  but  damn  me 
first  for  a  bloody  blackmailer.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  asking.  Honest,  I  didn't." 

Norris  felt  a  strange  sinking  in  his  heart,  a 
gulping  in  his  throat.  He  trembled  on  the  verge 
of  impulsive  confession,  then  swallowed  hard, 
caught  Cullom's  fist  in  a  strong  grip,  closed  it,  and 
forced  it  down. 

"None  of  that,  Shandy,"  he  said.  "Take  it 
from  me,  it's  a  fair  deal.  Don't  forget  there  are 
lots  of  days  to  come.  If  things  keep  on  the  way 
they've  been  going,  probably  there'll  be  more  com 
ing  to  you." 

"Never,"  said  Cullom.  "Please,  Cap.  Do  like 
I  say." 

"Cut  it  out!"  said  Norris,  sharply.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  let  you  or  any  two-legged  man  on  earth 
hold  me  up  for  one  red  cent  more  than  was  com 
ing  to  him?  Forget  it  and  smile.  You've  got 
yours  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  Come  on.  We've 
got  to  see  those  girls  home." 

Tired  of  waiting,  the  girls  had  sauntered  along. 
Norris,  with  Cullom  following  dejectedly,  hurried 
after  and  caught  up  to  them.  Shandy's  eyes  sub 
jected  Miss  Gaylord  to  a  rapid  but  comprehensive 
survey,  and  promptly  rejected  her.  He  turned  to 
Millie.  "Come  along,  kid,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "I'm 


RACKHOUSE  105 

going  to  blow  you  to  a  ride  home — anywhere  in 
the  five-cent  zone." 

She  laughed,  took  his  arm,  called,  "Good 
night,"  and  led  him  toward  the  subway.  Norris 
and  Gladys  were  left  alone.  They  stood  looking 
at  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence ;  then  he 
hailed  a  passing  taxi,  asked  her  address,  and  helped 
her  in.  She  lived  far  north  on  the  west  side  and 
protested  weakly  at  his  extravagance. 

"The  further  the  better,"  he  said,  putting  his 
arm  around  her.  She  snuggled  up  to  him  in 
woman's  instinctive  urge  to  repay  generosity  with 
tenderness.  He  held  her  very  closely,  but  they 
scarcely  spoke  throughout  the  long  ride.  As  they 
approached  the  tawdry  apartment  house  in  which 
she  lived  she  moved  in  his  arms  and  raised  her 
face.  He  accepted  the  unspoken  invitation  and 
kissed  her.  Her  lips  seemed  to  dart  upward  to 
meet  his.  They  settled  on  his  mouth  and  clung 
there.  Their  warmth  amazed  him. 

As  the  cab  came  to  a  sudden  stop  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  nervously.  "You'll  have 
dinner  with  me  to-morrow,  won't  you?"  he  asked. 
"Wait  for  me  in  the  lobby  of  the  Algonquin." 

She  nodded  her  head,  left  the  cab  without  giv 
ing  him  a  chance  to  assist  her,  crossed  the  side 
walk,  and  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  apartment  house. 
Just  before  she  entered  she  turned  and  waved  her 
hand  at  him.  He  ordered  the  driver  to  go  down 
town  and  settled  back  into  the  corner  of  the  cab. 
Its  emptiness  troubled  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  hours  he  was  alone 


106  RACKHOUSE 

with  his  thoughts,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  fac 
ing  them.  He  harried  them  this  way  and  that, 
stared  out  of  the  window  in  a  vain  search  for 
distraction  and,  feeling  himself  increasingly  as 
sailed,  finally  stopped  the  taxi,  dismissed  it,  and 
walked  toward  the  nearest  subway  station.  At 
that  hour  the  streets  were  well-nigh  deserted  and 
the  train  with  its  possible  accumulation  of  pas 
sengers  became  a  goal.  He  wanted  to  be  near 
people,  to  watch  them,  to  hear  them  talk,  to 
immerse  himself  in  the  refuge  of  trivialities.  It 
was  almost  two  o'clock  when  he  reached  home, 
happily  dog  tired.  He  threw  himself  fully 
dressed  on  the  couch  and  slept. 

During  the  days  that  followed  it  seemed  to 
Norris  that  Jimmie,  seen  or  unseen,  was  constantly 
at  his  shoulder.  What  had  the  old  man  meant  by 
that  small  talk  of  big  incomes?  Was  he  con 
templating  burglary  on  a  large  scale  and  counting 
on  the  Black  Mask  as  a  complacent  accomplice? 
Norris  thought  not;  he  had  altogether  too  high  a 
respect  for  Jimmie's  powers  of  perception  to  think 
that  he  would  count  so  strongly  on  the  thread  of 
disgrace  which  had  given  him  a  temporary  dom 
inance  over  the  amateur  faker  his  shrewdness  had 
detected.  No;  the  scheme  must  be  broader  and 
on  a  higher  plane  than  crass  burglary.  He  turned 
to  Jimmie  at  a  moment  when  they  were  alone  and 
asked  him  point-blank  for  elucidation. 

"Wait,"  said  Jimmie.  He  counted  on  his 
fingers,  narrowed  his  eyes  and  added,  "Wait  five 
days." 


RACKHOUSE  107 

At  the  end  of  that  period  Norris  had  forgotten 
the  remark.  Something  else  had  absorbed  him 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  ready  for  a  partial  account 
ing  with  himself.  He  had  reached  a  mark.  On 
the  previous  evening  he  had  hidden  away  $5,000 
in  even  money,  still  reserving  a  sizable  amount  for 
his  current  needs.  He  could  not  have  defined  the 
psychological  phenomenon  which  this  event  in 
duced;  he  only  knew  that  a  new  kind  of  strength 
had  crept  into  the  conduct  of  his  affairs.  What 
had  really  happened  was  that  ready  cash  was 
slowly  filling  the  emptied  reservoir  of  self-respect. 
It  demeans  any  man  utterly  to  abandon  friends, 
standards,  honor,  and  his  better  self  for  a  miser 
able  pittance,  but  scarcely  a  day  passes  that  does 
not  see  a  like  treachery  committed  for  a  thousand, 
a  hundred  thousand,  or  a  cool  million  of  dollars, 
leaving  its  perpetrator  possessed  of  the  rugged 
hardihood  of  him  who  stills  his  conscience  with 
the  immemorial  satisfaction  of  value  received. 

Buttressed  by  the  relatively  insignificant  sum 
of  $5,000,  the  Black  Mask  could  sit  down  calmly 
and  look  back  with  an  almost  absolute  detachment 
on  Roderic  Norris,  conjure  him  up  to  vision,  and 
estimate  his  quandaries,  assets,  and  reactions  with 
what  he  supposed  to  be  an  impartial  eye.  What 
he  could  not  do  was  to  appreciate  the  full  sig 
nificance  of  the  basic  fear  which,  almost  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  had  induced  a  right-about- 
face  in  the  character  and  traditions  of  that  same 
Roddy  Norris  and,  by  a  fluke,  given  him  a  run 
ning  start  away  from  all  that  he  had  been — away 


io8  RACKHOUSE 

from  money  as  the  casual  and  unmentionable 
toward  money  as  the  all-powerful. 

Unbelievable  as  it  may  seem  to  those  whose 
lives  have  never  turned  a  hairpin  corner,  the  Black 
Mask  with  $5,000  to  play  with  could  look  back 
upon  the  Roddy  Norris  of  ten  days  before  and 
sum  him  up  coolly  as  a  likable  chap,  a  good  friend 
to  his  friends,  a  better  sportsman,  and  one  who 
had  been  game  to  the  end.  He  had  gone  down 
smiling,  and  none  of  them  had  known  anything 
about  it  even  when  it  was  all  over.  Seen  thus  in 
retrospect,  the  fall  of  Capt.  Roderic  Norris  be 
gan  to  assume  a  tinge  of  the  heroic,  and  from  that 
budding  conception  it  required  but  the  effort  of 
a  long  stride  to  cross  to  a  point  of  view  which 
could  find  admirable  qualities  in  his  reincarnation 
as  a  beggar  capable  of  capitalizing  a  fluke  to  the 
extent  of  $5,000. 

Every  chance  incident  of  the  course  he  had 
taken  began  to  appear  as  the  fruits  of  his  own 
perspicacity.  If  he  had  been  soft  or  friendly  or 
confiding,  if  he  had  striven  to  link  the  present  with 
the  past,  the  whole  bit  of  play  acting  might  easily 
have  degenerated  into  a  farce.  It  was  his  grim 
earnest  that  had  saved  the  day,  banished  Dick 
Page,  discouraged  interference  from  Rockman, 
side-tracked  Bronk,  and  neatly  disposed  of  Cul- 
lom.  Of  Ruth,  even  in  this  moment  of  retrospec 
tion,  he  refused  to  think.  His  thoughts  pretended 
that  she  had  no  place  among  them,  dodged  around 
her,  and  plunged  hurriedly  with  a  dumb  groping 
toward  a  justification  of  his  rebirth. 


RACKHOUSE  109 

What  if  he  had  shed  his  friends  as  a  snake 
sloughs  its  skin?  He  had  been  finished,  anyway. 
Literally,  he  had  turned  his  back  on  nothing.  He 
had  started  out  stripped  of  everything  but  a  bor 
rowed  idea  and  here  he  was,  standing  on  his  own 
feet,  facing  life  again  with  $5,000  between  him 
and  the  sinking  feeling  of  no  money,  nothing  to 
do,  and  nowhere  to  go.  No  one  knew  what  he 
had  gone  through  during  the  weeks  and  days  and 
hours  he  had  watched  the  oncoming  of  the  fate 
which  was  to  overwhelm  him.  He  hadn't  crawled 
and  he  hadn't  yelped.  Not  even  to  Ruth!  He 
repeated  her  name  aloud,  "Ruth!" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  brought  him  stag 
gering  to  his  feet.  He  stared  wide  eyed  into  the 
shadows  of  the  room,  saw  himself  as  an  impostor, 
a  virtual  embezzler  of  the  fruits  of  charity,  and 
his  face  turned  pale.  "What  sophistry!"  he  cried. 
"Coward,  skunk,  and  miser!  How  dare  you! 
How  dare  you  speak  her  name !" 

Some  one  knocked  on  the  door.  He  did  not 
answer.  It  was  very  late,  fully  an  hour  since 
Millie  and  Jimmie  had  said  good  night  and  gone 
away.  A  wild  idea  seized  upon  him.  What  if  it 
were  Ruth,  alone?  What  if  she  were  there,  at 
the  door,  come  in  miraculous  answer  to  his  call? 
If  it  were  indeed  she,  he  would  drag  her  in,  fall 
at  her  feet,  tell  her  every  last  thing,  all  that  was 
for  him,  all  that  was  against,  and  trust  to  her 
serene  vision  to  give  him  penance  and  put  him 
straight.  He  strode  to  the  door  and  threw  it 
open.  Jimmie  slipped  in. 


no  RACKHOUSE 

"Thought  I  heard  you  talking,"  he  remarked. 
"Another  minute  and  I  would  have  gone  away." 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  Norris.  "Did  you 
forget  something?"  He  was  shaky  from  the  sud 
den  revulsion  of  his  emotions.  He  wanted  to 
curse  or  to  laugh,  and  tried  to  do  both  at  the  same 
time. 

"What's  come  over  you,  Blackie  ?"  said  Jimmie. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  cried  Norris,  impatiently — "nothing 
except  that  you  look  so  damned  funny  that  I  don't 
know  whether  to  cry  or  laugh  over  it.  What  the 
devil  do  you  want?  Don't  you  ever  sleep?" 

"I'm  almost  sorry  I  came  hack,"  said  the  old 
man,  with  genuine  lugubrious  feeling  in  his  voice. 
"I  went  out  of  here  thinking  the  time  had  come. 
I  thought  about  you  all  the  way  home,  and  when 
I  got  there  I  opened  the  safe,  took  out  some 
papers,  and — and  came  back.  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you  a  bit  when  Millie  wasn't  hanging  around. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  You  know.  But 
if  it's  going  to  roil  you  to  listen,  why  it's  no  time 
to  tell  you.  Let  me  out." 

"Don't  go,  Jimmie,"  said  Norris,  calmly,  fully 
recovered  from  his  perturbation.  "Sit  down. 
Talk  all  you  like.  I'm  not  a  bit  sleepy." 

The  old  man  seated  himself  and  laid  upon  the 
table  a  large  bundle  wrapped  in  waterproofed 
paper  and  firmly  tied.  "Son,"  he  said,  "tell  me 
the  truth.  Aren't  you  a  bit  fed  up  with  playing  a 
skin  tune  on  the  public's  feelings?  Now,  don't 
get  angry.  Think  it  out.  Don't  you  feel  a  bit 


RACKHOUSE  in 

wormy  when  a  girl  with  a  seven-dollar-a-week  pay 
roll  digs  into  her  food  allowance  to  hand  you  a 
quarter?  No,  I'm  not  looking  at  you.  I  know 
just  how  red  your  face  is  and  how  tight  your  fist 
is  clenched  without  looking.  You  can't  hit  me, 
because  I'm  an  old  man,  sixty-seven  years  old  this 
very  day,  and  planning  this  very  minute  to  make  a 
million." 

"To  make  a  million  1"  repeated  Norris. 

Jimmie  nodded  his  head.  "Ha!  I  thought 
that  would  get  you.  Miserly,  you  are.  Hoarding 
money.  Hiding  it  away.  Not  in  a  bank  wrhere  it 
could  work  for  its  keep,  but  in  some  dusty  hole  in 
the  floor.  You  got  mad  the  other  day  when  you 
thought  I  called  you  a  crook.  Gad !  If  you  took 
a  club,  slipped  around  the  corner,  cracked  the  first 
stranger  on  the  head  for  what  your  organ  outfit 
takes  in  in  an  hour,  I'd  call  you  a  man." 

"Get  somewhere  with  this  talk,"  snapped  Nor 
ris,  white  lipped,  "or  shut  up  and  get  out." 

"That's  the  spirit,"  commented  Jimmie,  coolly. 
"Now  listen,  Blackie.  I  didn't  come  here  just  for 
the  sake  of  pot  calling  the  kettle  black,  nor  just 
to  make  you  see  red  to  no  purpose.  No,  sir.  I 
came  here  because  I  need  a  man  and  because  I 
knew  that  for  all  the  manhood  you've  been  sell 
ing  for  pennies  and  nickels  and  dimes  and  quarters, 
youVe  still  got  enough  left  to  make  a  dent  in  the 
face  of  time  if  you  can  only  get  out  your  crippled 
spirit  along  with  that  fake  crippled  arm  and  swing 
them  wide.  Open  country — and  courage — and 
action — barrels  of  action." 


ii2  RACKHOUSE 

"Open  country?"  repeated  Norris.     "Action?" 

"That's  what  I  said,"  confirmed  Jimmie.  "Ac 
tion — wild  action.  Come  here.  Come  here  close. 
I've  got  something  to  show  you." 

Very  slowly  and  painstakingly  he  unknotted 
the  string  around  the  bundle  on  the  table,  un 
folded  the  waterproofed  paper,  and  opened  the 
manila  wrapper  within,  disclosing  at  length 
a  compact  mass  of  documents.  "Looky,"  he 
said. 

Norris  drew  up  his  chair,  reached  out,  took  up 
a  few  of  the  papers,  and  studied  them  with  a  blank 
look  in  his  face.  Some  of  them  were  a  bit  old 
and  crumpled;  some  were  smooth  and  new;  many 
were  small,  mere  slips;  a  few  were  large;  and 
one  was  very  big  and  important  indeed,  a  sheet 
of  near-parchment,  heavily  engrossed  and  headed, 
"Rackhouse  Incorporated."  This  last  was  a 
charter  of  sorts  issued  under  the  broad  company 
laws  of  the  state  of  Delaware.  It  gave  less  infor 
mation  than  any  other  document  in  the  entire 
heap;  but  it  looked  so  consequential  that  Norris 
studied  it  longest,  and  the  more  he  perused  it  the 
greater  was  his  bewilderment. 

"What's  it  all  about,  Jimmie?"  he  asked. 
"These  papers  don't  mean  a  thing  to  me — not  one 
little  thing." 

"No,  they  wouldn't,"  said  Jimmie,  his  eyes 
smoldering.  "You  may  be  long  on  courage,  son, 
but  you're  short  in  deductive  brain  matter.  Not 
stupid,  mind  you.  I'm  not  calling  you  a  general 
dumbbell.  I  should  say  your  headpiece  is  quick 


RACKHOUSE  113 

and  sure  in  action,  but  slow  on  the  cold  trail  of 
cause  and  effect.  Look  at  these  small  slips.  They 
are  money,  son,  liquid  gold.  Face  value  when  I 
bought  them — only  two  dollars  the  gallon  on  an 
average — but  now !  Nobody  knows." 

"You're  crazy,  Jimmie,"  interrupted  Norris. 
"What  kind  of  talk  is  that — face  value  two  dol 
lars  to  the  gallon?" 

"Look  at  them,  saphead !"  cried  Jimmie,  flutter 
ing  one  of  the  slips  under  Norris's  nose.  "Just 
look  at  them.  They're  all  different  inside.  Some 
call  for  forty  gallons;  some  for  a  hundred. 
There's  one  queen  bee  that  reads  honey  to  the 
tune  of  five  hundred  precious  gallons  of  the  true 
old  stuff,  aged  in  the  wood  since  you  were  a  boy. 
Blackie,  wake  up !  These  are  bonded  warehouse 
certificates,  and  whoever  holds  them  owns  several 
thousand  gallons  of  pre-war  liquor !" 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  said  Norris.  "Haven't 
you  read  the  papers,  either,  for  twelve  years? 
Why  don't  you  burn  this  trash  up?  What  you 
need  is  a  copy  of  the  revised  Constitution  of  the 
United  States." 

Jimmie  turned  red  to  the  verge  of  apoplexy; 
then  his  face  paled  slowly  with  a  superhuman 
effort  at  self-control  and  his  lips  drew  into  a  thin 
white  line.  "When  people  were  really  feeling  the 
way  you  talk,"  he  said,  quietly,  "when  the  only 
reason  they  didn't  burn  this  trash  up  was  because 
they  were  too  dog-gone  lazy,  that's  when  I  bought 
it.  Two  dollars  a  gallon  then ;  liquid  gold  to-day. 
Look  here,  boy.  See  these  papers?  Permits. 


ii4  RACKHOUSE 

Permits  for  removal.  Do  you  get  that?  Permits 
for  removal!" 

"Don't  shout,  Jimmie,"  cautioned  Norris. 
"I'm  beginning  to  see  the  light  and  I'll  say  it's  a 
blaze,  all  right.  How  did  you  do  it?  How  did 
you  get  those  government  permits  for  removal? 
Are  they  real  or  are  they  phony?" 

"Ha!  How  did  I  get  them!"  exclaimed  the 
old  man.  "Brains,  son,  brains.  They're  real. 
They're  genuine.  More  than  that,  they're  legiti 
mate,  lawful,  legal,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  tauto 
logical  rigmarole.  Look !  Look  here  1  Do  you 
know  what  this  is?"  He  drew  out  the  very  im 
portant-looking  near-parchment  document  and 
spread  it  smoothly  on  the  table.  "This  is  real, 
too.  Cost  me  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  the 
cheapest  state  in  the  Union." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Norris. 

"A  charter,"  replied  Jimmie.  "Articles  of  in 
corporation  for  the  Rackhouse  Company,  sole 
makers  and  licensers  of  the  famous  Mountain 
Dew  Horse  Liniment,  bottled  and  in  bulk,  carry 
ing  eighteen  per  cent  of  rectified  alcohol.  Here. 
This  paper  is  the  authorized  chemical  analysis. 
Here's  another.  It's  the  label,  officially  passed 
and  certified.  To  make  our  horse  liniment  we've 
got  a  right  to  own  alcohol  and  move  it.  Did  you 
get  that?  A  right.  But  nobody  can  make  us 
make  our  famous  horse  liniment.  No,  sir.  We 
can  spend  all  our  paid-up  capital  just  getting 
ready,  moving  the  rough  stuff  around,  having  it 
stolen  from  us — at  a  price." 


RACKHOUSE  115 

"Why  do  you  say  'we'?"  asked  Norris,  after  a 
long  thoughtful  pause.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  sneak  into  your  gold  mine  as  an  invited  guest? 
I've  got  damn  little  money  for  a  deal  like  this,  and 
you've  just  proved  to  me  and  to  yourself  that  I've 
got  less  brain." 

Jimmie  nodded  appreciatively.  "Right  on  both 
counts,"  he  said.  "Now  listen  to  me,  son.  There's 
less  philanthropy  in  me  when  it  comes  to  a  business 
deal  than  there  is  in  a  pauper's  bunion.  Get  that 
straight.  I've  worked  too  hard,  saved  too  hard, 
and  thought  too  hard  for  my  money,  to  spend  it 
in  buying  ingratitude  from  somebody  that  I  hap 
pen  to  like  the  way  I  do  you.  I  said  you  haven't 
a  deductive  brain  and  I  was  telling  God's  truth. 
But,  as  it  happens,  I've  got  all  the  deductive  brain 
this  outfit  needs  and  enough  left  over  to  fill  a 
bucket  every  five  minutes.  You've  got  a  miserable 
five  thousand  dollars  and  we  could  almost  leave 
that  out.  Why?  Because  you've  got  one  thing 
that  I  need  the  way  the  Bad  Lands  need  water, 
something  all  the  money  in  the  world  can't  buy." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Norris. 

"Youth,"  answered  the  old  man.  "The  cour 
age  of  the  young  heart,  action  in  the  face  of 
danger." 

"Danger?"  repeated  Norris.  "Where's  the 
danger?  I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  sure  thing, 
lawful,  legal,  and  all  the  rest." 

Jimmie  sighed  deeply.  "Blind.  Stone  blind," 
he  murmured.  "Blind  as  the  wall  eye  of  an  Old 
English  sheep  dog.  Listen!"  He  jumped  to  his 


n6  RACKHOUSE 

feet  and  extended  a  thin,  trembling  hand.  "Do 
you  think  we're  going  to  tote  around  parcels  under 
our  arms?  Look,  Blackie.  Shut  your  blinking 
eyes  and  look  ahead.  Can't  you  see  anything? 
I'll  see  for  you.  Listen!  A  house  at  a  crossroads, 
a  bankrupt,  abandoned,  buy-it-for-a-song  halfway 
house,  big  cellared  and  roomy  to  live  in.  I've 
picked  it.  I've  bought  it.  Headquarters  of  the 
Rackhouse  Company  Incorporated.  Trucks 
coming  and  trucks  going — fast  trucks,  high-pow 
ered  as  they  make  them.  Why?  Because  they'll 
be  carrying  liquid  gold.  Because  they'll  store 
more  treasure  to  the  five-ton  bottom  than  ever 
weighted  down  the  galleons  of  the  Spanish  Main. 
What  happened  to  those  galleons,  Blackie? 
Weren't  you  ever  a  boy?  Did  you  never  hear 
of  Captain  Kidd,  son?  Captain  Kidd  and  a  dozen 
more  like  him?  Well,  believe  me,  the  breed 
hasn't  died  out  and  I  can  see  things  happening 
on  the  Trumbull  Road,  once  our  fleet  of  lorries 
gets  under  weigh,  that  will  make  history  turn  a 
back  somersault  and  stare  its  tail  in  the  face!" 

"You  mean  that,  Jimmie?"  interrupted  Norris. 
"You  really  believe  it  will  come  to  that?" 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  old  man,  his  face  setting 
grimly.  "Inside  a  month  we  won't  dare  send  out 
a  truck  without  an  armed  guard  of  four  gunmen 
and  some  one  on  top  of  them  that  we  can  trust. 
Doesn't  sound  quite  as  soft  as  snatching  pennies 
through  a  hand  organ  from  moist-eyed  women, 
does  it?" 

"No,"  said  Norris,  full  voiced.    "Thank  God, 


RACKHOUSE  117 

it  doesn't!    I'm  in  with  you  on  any  terms.    Now 
what  are  they?" 

"Youth  and  your  five  thousand  against  my 
stake,"  replied  the  old  man,  promptly.  "Never 
fear  but  you'll  earn  the  even  break,  Blackie. 
We've  never  shaken  hands,  son.  Here's  mine." 


Chapter  VI 

SINCE  the  night  when  she  was  utterly  routed 
by  Millie,  Ruth  Ardsley  had  been  living  as 
though  in  a  stunned  trance.  It  seemed  incredible 
to  her  that  only  a  week  before  she  had  been  oc 
cupied  with  picking  faults  in  life  and  the  world 
and  finding  existence  in  general  a  dull  affair.  It 
was  as  though  a  host  of  emotions  she  had  derided 
as  dead  had  been  released  in  a  swarm  by  Rock- 
man's  talisman  to  her  own  undoing. 

At  first  the  genuine  elation  she  had  felt  over 
the  glorious  success  of  the  application  of  his 
recipe  had  sustained  and  blinded  her  to  more  per 
sonal  interests,  but  as  that  initial  enthusiasm  be 
gan  to  wane  she  became  conscious  of  herself  and 
her  bruised  pride.  Fortunately  for  her  there 
were  certain  elements  which  distracted  her  atten 
tion  from  self-pity.  First  and  foremost  among 
them  was  the  mystification  into  which  Roddy 
Norris,  whom  she  had  thought  she  knew  as  the 
palm  of  her  hand,  had  plunged  her. 

The  bedroom  of  her  childhood  was  a  bedroom 
no  longer;  it  had  been  transformed  into  a  charm 
ing  setting  for  her  idle  moments.  It  had  the  air 
of  a  place  that  is  not  only  lived  in,  but  beloved. 
Her  couch,  a  lamp,  one  window,  and  her  books 

uS 


RACKHOUSE  119 

gathered  themselves  into  a  corner  cozily  as  if  they 
had  been  grouped  by  their  own  volition.  Beside 
the  other  window,  commanding  a  direct  outlook 
on  the  persevering  ailanthus  tree,  was  her  little 
mahogany  writing  desk,  faced  by  a  slant-backed 
Windsor  chair. 

Sitting  in  this  chair  and  leaning  one  elbow  on 
the  desk,  she  supported  her  head  on  her  hand 
and  looked  pensively  out  of  the  window  at  the 
old  familiar  tree.  It  seemed  to  her  that  one  of 
its  crotches  was  still  worn  from  the  scuffing  of 
Roddy's  heels.  She  knew  that  in  reality  he  had 
not  perched  there  more  than  three  or  four  times 
in  his  life,  and  then  always  with  a  whipping  in 
prospect,  but  perhaps  by  reason  of  their  daring 
those  occasions  stood  out  most  clearly  in  memory. 
If,  a  week  ago,  anyone  had  predicted  that  that 
boy  companion  of  her  own  girlhood  would  some 
day  become  a  closed  book  to  her,  she  would  have 
laughed  aloud  at  the  improbability.  And  yet,  it 
had  happened,  not  in  the  course  of  years,  but  in 
the  turning  of  the  single  leaf  of  a  night. 

"Why" — she  asked  herself  for  the  thousandth 
time — "why  did  he  throw  me  off  that  night? 
Why  didn't  I  wait?  Why  didn't  I  let  him — make 
him  tell  me?  It  wasn't  like  Roddy.  It  wasn't 
Roddy.  But  then,  I  hadn't  been  me.  Was  that 
it?  Was  it?" 

It  was  these  questions  that  had  driven  her  twice 
to  Smudge  Alley.  She  had  not  admitted  the  fact 
even  to  herself  in  so  many  words,  but  in  her  heart 
she  knew  it  was  so.  She  had  wanted  to  give  him 


RACKHOUSE 

a  chance  to  tell,  or  to  take,  herself,  a  chance  to 
make  him  tell,  but  no  opportunity  had  offered. 
Instead,  mystery  had  piled  on  mystery.  She  re 
proached  herself  for  having  taken  Rockman  with 
her  on  the  first  visit,  but  immediately  she  remem 
bered  that  Roddy  had  been  unapproachable,  al 
ready  wholly  unlike  himself,  though  only  forty- 
eight  hours  stood  between  them  and  all  the  years 
they  had  thought  they  could  never  misunderstand 
each  other  I 

Their  courtship  had  been  one  of  those  accumu 
lative  possessions  which  have  grown  rare  in  late 
years  because  people  move  so  frequently  and  so 
much.  Their  lives  had  been  slowly  knitted  to 
gether  with  tiny  stitches,  each  one  significant  in 
itself,  but  which,  taken  in  their  sum,  formed  an 
alliance  almost  as  strong  as  the  mysterious  sym 
pathy  between  twins. 

"Roddy  Norris  has  come  to  take  you  to  the 
party,  dear,"  in  her  mother's  full-toned  voice,  was 
a  refrain  that  went  back  and  back  to  the  very 
beginnings  of  memory  and  was  intertwined  with 
recollection  of  her  first  starched  frock,  her  first 
shoes  with  buckles,  her  first  knee-length  dress, 
her  first  put-up  hair,  and,  long,  long  before  that, 
her  first  disgrace.  She  could  still  blush  for  the 
day  when,  herself  a  tiny  tot,  she  had  broken  away, 
crossed  a  hand-holding  circle  of  singing  children, 
and  slapped  another  baby  for  having  chosen 
Roddy  Norris  in  a  game  which  entailed  the  fa 
miliarity  of  a  kiss.  Even  now  and  in  spite  of  the 
blush,  she  could  find  no  regret  in  her  heart.  No 


RACKHOUSE  121 

one  had  ever  tried  it  again  in  all  the  years  which 
had  intervened,  no  one — well — until  that  terrible 
girl  in  Smudge  Alley! 

Ruth  was  on  the  edge  of  the  generation  of 
girls  which  has  become  a  law  unto  itself.  Human 
flesh  had  not  changed  since  her  mother's  time, 
but  limitations  had.  Her  mother's  generation 
walked  a  causeway.  Occasionally  a  woman 
stepped  off  it,  and  when  she  did  she  stayed  off. 
But  Ruth  knew  many  girls  of  her  own  class  who 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  cow  path  for  the  highway 
of  life.  The  astonishing  thing  was  the  way  they 
treated  the  ancient  causeway.  They  would 
meander  across  it,  plod  along  it  lazily,  step  off 
it  and  on  again  with  an  apparent  inconsequence 
which  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  tradition  and 
would  have  been  laughable  to  her  if  she  had  not 
been  part  and  parcel  of  the  feminine  reformation. 
As  it  was,  she  accepted  conditions  with  a  steady- 
eyed  philosophy  which  older  people  are  only  be 
ginning  to  glean. 

This  business  of  being  a  law  unto  itself  involved 
its  own  responsibilities.  Each  girl  she  knew  car 
ried  around  with  her  an  individual  standard  of 
conduct  which  varied  from  vanity-case  sizes  to 
the  measure  of  a  full-length  yardstick.  Girls  still 
congregated  in  bevies,  but  they  no  longer  lived 
in  bevies.  In  those  hours  when  they  went  their 
single  and  highly  diversified  ways  they  attended 
far  more  intensely  to  their  own  intimate  business 
than  ever  before  in  the  world's  history,  and  when 
they  elected  to  come  back  to  the  hive  they  were 


122  RACKHOUSE 

welcomed  not  as  outcasts  or  prodigals,  but  as 
daring  scouts  who  return  to  the  main  army.  They 
did  not  blurt  out  where  they  had  been  and  what 
they  had  seen,  but  gradually,  by  a  dropped  word, 
by  an  unconscious  action  or  an  acquired  habit, 
one  learned  and — well — one  wondered.  It  was 
a  vague  sea,  troubled,  uncharted,  surprisingly  un 
discovered,  and  lucky  were  those  who  rode  at 
anchor  on  its  tossing  waves. 

Because  the  ways  of  her  girl  friends  were  so 
diversified,  Ruth  had  acquired  an  idea  that  she 
was  in  contact  with  a  cross-section  of  all  woman 
hood,  but  the  collision  with  Millie  had  brought 
her  up  all-standing.  Here  was  something  differ 
ent,  so  different  that  it  fell  outside  the  range  of 
all  her  little  rules  of  thumb.  The  only  familiar 
thing  she  could  tie  to  was  the  almost  overwhelm 
ing  impulse  to  slap  Millie  as  she  had  her  child 
rival  of  years  ago.  What  had  stopped  her?  Not 
good  breeding,  but  bewilderment,  a  feeling  that 
Millie  was  planted  up  to  the  knees  in  the  strange 
soil  of  things  as  they  are  and  a  vague  notion  that 
the  girl  had  lied  by  implication,  but  lied  sincerely, 
playing  some  deep  game  in  which  the  elementals 
of  life  were  the  ninepins. 

Six  weeks  had  passed  since  that  crucial  evening 
and  much  had  happened  which  added  to  Ruth's 
mystification,  but  nothing  that  detracted  from  it 
or  offered  the  slightest  clew  toward  solution.  In 
the  first  place,  Roddy  and  his  triumphant  cortege 
had  suddenly  and  inexplicably  disappeared  from 
the  streets.  What  had  happened?  Twice,  at 


RACKHOUSE  123 

night,  she  had  made  visits  alone  to  Smudge  Alley. 
On  the  first  occasion  she  had  persuaded  herself, 
by  listening  before  she  knocked,  that  the  little 
apartment  was  unoccupied;  on  the  second  she  had 
witnessed  a  hasty  visit  by  Millie.  When  the  girl 
came  out  she  had  accosted  her. 

"Do  you  know  where  he's  gone?"  she  asked, 
with  a  simplicity  which  appealed  to  Millie's  sar 
donic  strain  of  humor,  so  that  she  paused  in  her 
hurried  stride  long  enough  to  look  Ruth  straight 
in  the  eyes  and  take  satisfaction  in  answering  with 
equal  directness,  "No,  I  don't." 

Just  as  Ruth  had  felt  that  the  girl  had  inten 
tionally  misled  her  on  the  occasion  of  their  pre 
vious  encounter,  she  now  felt  that  Millie  was  tell 
ing  the  stark  truth  perhaps  because  it  was  so 
stark  and  stripped  of  the  possibilities  of  comfort. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  Ruth  was  not  worrying 
half  as  much  over  Roddy's  physical  whereabouts 
as  she  was  over  the  inexplicable  spiritual  with 
drawal  which  had  so  suddenly  severed  the  com 
panionship  of  years.  As  she  sat  by  the  window, 
staring  out  with  tightly  puckered  brows,  trying 
to  puzzle  her  way  through  the  labyrinth  which 
the  events  of  recent  weeks  had  spun  about  her, 
she  forgot  the  glittering-eyed  Norris  of  Sixth 
Avenue,  the  strangely  abstracted  Norris  of 
Smudge  Alley,  and  remembered  the  smiling  Roddy 
of  all  the  years  before. 

Her  whole  body  was  concentrated  and  tense 
with  effort,  but  suddenly  something  seemed  to 
snap  within  her.  She  melted;  her  elbows  spread 


RACKHOUSE 

on  the  desk,  her  head  dropped  upon  her  arms, 
and  she  sobbed  out :  "Oh,  Roddy !  Please,  Roddy  I 
Please  come  back!" 

At  that  very  moment  Norris  and  Jimmie  were 
seated  in  what  had  once  been  the  rough-and-ready 
reception  room  of  Crossroads  Inn.  Just  as  Jimmie 
had  bought  up  his  original  batch  of  bonded  ware 
house  certificates  on  a  black  day  when  their  dis 
couraged  owners  considered  them  trash,  so  had  he 
purchased  for  a  song  this  once  prosperous  wayside 
hostelry  from  a  bankrupt  who  had  not  the  vision 
to  foresee  that  more  individual  fortunes  were  des 
tined  to  be  made  out  of  liquor  in  six  months  of 
prohibition  than  in  any  six  years  of  license. 

Crossroads  Inn  had  never  been  a  show  place 
in  any  sense  of  the  word.  It  stood  back  several 
rods  from  the  highway  on  the  first  rise  of  a  gentle 
slope,  and  in  winter,  when  it  was  purchased  by  its 
new  owner,  presented  a  rather  desolate  appear 
ance.  But  now,  with  the  first  pale-green  flush 
of  spring  carpeting  the  hillside  and  clothing  with 
a  diaphanous  mist  of  verdure  the  single  elm  which 
stood  beside  the  house,  its  aspect  was  far  from 
unpleasant.  The  edifice  itself  was  of  familiar 
country  architecture.  It  stood  foursquare  and 
two  stories  high,  with  a  narrow  veranda  along 
the  length  of  its  front.  Its  clapboards  were 
painted  white,  its  shutters  green,  and  its  shingles 
were  of  the  weatherbeaten  gray  imparted  only  by 
the  finger  of  Time. 

When  Norris,  with  Jimmie,  had  first  plowed 
through  the  mud  to  look  at  the  place,  the  latter 


RACKHOUSE  125 

had  asked  in  the  shamed  elation  of  a  first  real 
possession,  "What  shall  we  name  it?" 

"Call  it  'Rackhouse,'  "  Norris  had  replied, 
without  hesitation.  "That's  your  Company's 
name  and  yours,  too,  isn't  it?" 

The  old  man  had  nodded.  "We'll  call  it 
Rackhouse,  son;  but  as  to  whether  it's  my  name 
or  whether  it  isn't,  that's  as  the  case  may  be." 

The  interior  had  been  adapted  to  the  uses  of 
a  road  house.  The  two  large  rooms  which  had 
originally  made  up  the  front  of  the  building 
had  been  thrown  into  one.  The  counter  of  a  bar, 
backed  by  shelves,  now  empty  and  dust  covered, 
obtruded  along  half  the  length  of  the  rear  wall. 
Standing  out  toward  the  middle  of  the  floor  was 
an  old-fashioned,  bulging  stove,  a  wood  burner, 
and  just  within  the  heat  radius  of  the  small  fire, 
kept  going  to  take  the  chill  from  the  air,  was 
placed  a  large  deal  table  covered  with  a  red-and- 
white  diapered  cloth. 

Jimmie  and  Norris  had  drawn  two  of  the  numer 
ous  sturdy  wooden  chairs  which  dotted  the  room 
to  the  side  of  this  table,  upon  which  was  spread 
a  large-scale  road  map.  On  another  chair  close 
at  hand  were  other  maps,  official  blue-books  of 
the  Automobile  Club  of  America,  and  various 
special  route  schedules  issued  by  the  same  organ 
ization. 

Jimmie  placed  the  tip  of  a  clawlike  finger  first 
on  a  small  red-penciled  circle  and  then  on  a  cross. 
"Here's  where  we  are,"  he  said,  "and  this  is  where 
it  happened." 


126  RACKHOUSE 

Norris  studied  the  map  thoughtfully.  "I  know 
that  reach,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "and  it's 
a  long  one;  but  it's  what  I  would  call  safe.  You 
can  see  far  ahead  and  on  both  sides.  I  don't 
understand  how  they  got  the  drop  on  our  crowd. 
Tell  me  the  whole  thing,  Jimmie.  I  feel  as  if  I'd 
been  away  a  month  instead  of  a  week." 

"Well,  it  was  this  way,"  complied  Jimmie. 
"Mike  started  out  with  number  three  truck  and  a 
middling  load,  about  nine  thousand  dollars' worth, 
gross.  He  had  Whale  and  Pogie  Villar  with 
him  and  we  thought  that  was  enough.  They  got 
off  a  bit  late  and  were  a  little  too  keen  to  pile  up 
a  big  daylight  mileage,  so  when  they  saw  a  cheap, 
fat-bellied  runabout  with  its  top  up  pegging  along 
in  front  of  them  they  trailed  it  for  only  the  half 
of  a  mile  before  they  began  to  get  impatient  and 
made  up  their  minds  it  was  nothing  but  what  it 
looked.  Mike  sounded  his  hooter  and  had  just 
stepped  on  all  the  gas  to  pass  as  soon  as  he  got 
the  gangway,  when  the  runabout  picked  up  a 
puncture,  spurted  air  with  a  shrill  whistle,  and 
went  flat  as  a  pancake  in  one  of  the  rear  tires.  It 
drew  up  bang  in  the  middle  of  the  fairway  and 
the  driver  and  his  passenger  jumped  out,  cursing 
quietly  like  gentlemen  and  never  even  looking  at 
the  truck." 

"Right  there  is  where  Mike  ought  to  have 
slapped  on  his  brakes  and  thrown  her  into  re 
verse  the  minute  she  stopped,"  interrupted  Norris. 
"If  he'd  kept  fifty  yards  off,  there  would  have 
been  two  sides  to  the  shooting." 


RACKHOUSE  127 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Jimmie.  "That's  what  he 
ought  to  have  done,  but  all  the  brains  on  the  road 
that  morning  were  riding  in  a  tin  runabout.  As 
Whale  Villar  put  it,  the  whole  business  was  so 
goll-durned  innocent  and  natural  that  he  and 
Pogie  and  Mike  were  all  so  lulled  they  thought 
prohibition  was  nothing  but  a  bad  dream,  and  be 
fore  they  could  quite  wake  up,  the  passenger 
whipped  out  a  gun  and  shot  a  hole  through  Mike's 
hat  just  as  a  range  finder.  One  more  man  crawled 
out  from  the  roadster  and  helped  its  driver  run 
it  out  of  the  way  into  the  ditch;  then  the  three 
strangers  lined  our  boys  up  along  the  fence  and 
one  went  to  the  wheel  of  the  truck,  while  the  other 
two  sat  on  the  tail  end  of  the  load  and  actually 
had  a  little  gun  practice  on  the  boys'  feet." 

Norris  grinned  in  the  face  of  the  serious  finan 
cial  loss.  "Bet  you  they're  mad  yet." 

"Mad!"  repeated  Jimmie.  "Look  here,  son. 
Don't  say  a  word  to  them  unless  you've  made  your 
will  in  my  favor.  Every  morning  until  I  sent 
them  out  again  they  went  to  the  garage  at  nine  and 
stood  in  a  triangle,  kicking  one  another.  I  know 
because  I  spied  on  them.  They  caught  me  at  it 
and  said  to  look  all  I  liked,  that  they  were  boot 
ing  their  brains  up  where  brains  belong.  Alto 
gether,  it  was  a  good  lesson  for  them.  I'm  glad 
it  happened." 

"Yes,"  said  Norris.  "But  how  many  good  les 
sons  can  we  afford  at  nine  thousand  dollars  a 
time?" 

"It  didn't  cost  nine  thousand   dollars,"    said 
9 


128  RACKHOUSE 

Jimmie,  his  eyes  narrowing.  "Blackie,  I  wonder 
how  a  mind  that  could  think  out  your  organ- 
grinder  stroke  of  genius  can  be  so  water-tight 
when  it  comes  to  absorbing  another  man's  master 
piece  of  the  same  gender.  Sometimes  I  despair 
of  ever  making  you  read  the  full  value  of  the  cards 
we  hold.  Here  we  sit  with  a  full  house,  aces  up, 
and  you  insist  on  playing  the  hand  as  if  it  was  a 
monkey  straight,  open  at  both  ends.  Look  on 
the  wall  there,  boy.  What  do  you  see?" 

"The  framed  charter  of  Rackhouse  Incorpo 
rated,"  said  Norris,  meekly. 

"Exactly,"  continued  Jimmie.  "As  soon  as 
their  feet  could  settle  to  earth  without  fear  of 
being  stung  by  a  last  long-range  bullet,  the  boys 
rushed  to  the  ditched  runabout.  They  didn't 
have  to  discuss  plans;  they  all  thought  of  the  same 
one  at  the  same  time.  They  were  going  to  slap 
a  new  inner  tube  into  the  flat  rear  wheel  in  record 
time  and  tear  the  guts  out  of  the  toy  car  and  fifty 
miles  an  hour  out  of  the  road  until  they  caught 
up  to  the  truck  and  got  back  two  kinds  of  their 
own.  That's  what  they  were  going  to  do.  But, 
luckily  for  you  and  me,  there  wasn't  an  extra 
tube  and  the  old  one  was  torn  for  keeps ;  so  they 
bound  up  the  flat  tire  with  a  bit  of  rope  and  limped 
back  home  as  fast  as  they  could  come." 

"Why  do  you  say  luckily  for  us?"  asked  Norris. 
"Don't  bother  to  prove  I'm  a  bonehead  any  more, 
Jimmie.  We  both  know  it,  so  tell  me  everything 
from  now  on  in  words  of  one  syllable." 

"I'll  tell  you  why  it  was  lucky,"  replied  Jimmie, 


RACKHOUSE  129 

without  comment  on  his  young  partner's  self-valu 
ation.  "Because  we  don't  want  any  high-priced, 
extra,  a  la  carte,  wholly  unnecessary,  and  luxuri 
ous  pitched  battles.  We  are  going  to  have  one 
once  in  a  while  as  the  piece  de  resistance  of  our 
regular  bill  of  fare.  He  paused.  "Did  you  get 
that  double-language  play  on  words,  Blackie?" 

"I  did,"  said  Norris,  emphatically,  humoring 
the  ex-professor's  glimmer  of  pride,  "and  it's  one 
of  the  best  mots  I  ever  heard.  Go  on." 

"In  such  a  battle,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"sooner  or  later  we're  bound  to  lose  anything  up 
to  a  twenty-thousand-dollar  stake,  and  we  can 
stand  it.  Don't  let  that  sort  of  thing  frighten  you 
again.  We  could  stand  it  to-morrow  and  only 
wince;  three  weeks  from  now  we  can  laugh  at 
it.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there  except  to 
make  you  feel  easy.  What  happened  this  time 
was  all  to  the  good  because  the  minute  the  boys 
got  back  and  sputtered  their  tale,  myself,  as  the 
general  manager  of  Rackhouse  Incorporated 
phoned  a  circle  of  main-road  towns  and  promptly 
jailed  three  clever  bandits  who  hadn't  been  quite 
sharp  enough  to  find  out  in  advance  that  this  is  a 
legitimate  concern  upheld  by  the  strong  arm  of  the 
law." 

"Jimmie,"  said  Norris,  with  unfeigned  admira 
tion,  "you're  a  wonder.  Your  nerve  ought  to  be 
out  on  the  road  driving  a  truck." 

"I  didn't  even  send  for  my  property,"  concluded 
the  old  man,  complacently.  "I  told  the  police 
their  roads  weren't  safe  enough  for  me  to  tote 


130  RACKHOUSE 

my  removal  permits  around.  So  they  drove  num 
ber  three  and  its  full  load  back,  looked  at  my 
papers,  packed  a  gift  case  of  hooch  into  the  run 
about,  and  departed,  all  sworn  friends  and  true. 
But  you're  wrong  about  my  nerve  and  the  open 
road;  I  need  all  I've  got  right  here.  Every  time 
you  start  out,  boy,  I  begin  shaking  and  I  shake 
till  you  call  me  on  the  long  distance  and  sing  out 
O.  K.  How  was  the  run?" 

"Great,"  replied  Norris.  "Not  a  single  thing 
to  tell  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  hesitatingly,  a  puz- 
led  frown  drawing  his  bushy  brows,  "we'd  better 
lock  up  the  money,  hadn't  we?" 

"There  isn't  any  money,"  said  Norris,  and, 
catching  the  bewildered  expression  of  dismay  on 
Jimmie's  face,  he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
aloud.  His  mirth  was  of  a  quality  subtly  different 
from  the  radiant  smile  which  had  made  Roddy 
Norris  the  most  lovable  of  overgrown  boys.  The 
laugh  of  to-day  was  that  of  a  man  who  was  on 
his  way,  knew  exactly  where  he  was  going,  and 
was  not  at  all  averse  to  stepping  on  other  people's 
corns  to  get  there.  His  face,  usually  so  meticu 
lously  shaved,  still  wore  the  stubble  of  two  days 
on  the  road,  and  through  the  growth  showed 
faintly  the  new  lines  come  to  mark  the  trend  of 
an  absorbing  change  of  motive  thought. 

His  laugh  stopped  shortly.  He  drew  a  slip  of 
paper  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  Mackinaw 
jacket  and  passed  it  across  the  table  to  Jimmie.  "I 
bought  a  draft  for  eleven  thousand  dollars  to 


RACKHOUSE  131 

the  credit  of  our  New  York  account,"  he  said. 
"Here's  the  receipt.  I  thought  it  was  no  use 
packing  the  cash.  Too  risky." 

"Good  boy!"  exclaimed  Jimmie,  his  face  bright 
ening.  "I  take  back  every  slurring  comment  on 
your  brainpiece.  I  wonder  if  we  could  train 
Mike,  Bill  Blood,  and  the  rest  of  the  new  lot  to 
do  the  same?" 

"The  rest?"  repeated  Norris.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"That's  business,  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie,  so 
berly.  "I've  bought  two  new  five-ton  trucks  since 
you  left.  We've  got  a  lot  of  business  to  talk  over, 
and  some  worries.  I've  got  eleven  full-load  or 
ders,  ten  of  them  within  our  driving  range,  one 
only  that  we  won't  touch.  That's  the  silver  lin 
ing,  but  there  are  clouds  that  go  with  it.  The 
runabout  mix-up  was  just  the  first  flurry  of  a  big 
storm,  thunder,  lightning,  and  all  the  fixtures." 

"But  you  said  you'd  jailed  that  bunch,"  inter 
rupted  Norris. 

"Think,  Blackie,  think,"  begged  Jimmie. 
"Rackhouse  Incorporated  is  never  going  to  pros 
ecute  anybody  for  anything.  The  bone  of 'con 
tention  in  any  lawsuit  is  always  dirty  at  both  ends. 
The  public  has  an  insatiable  nose  for  soiled  linen, 
and  when  you  sue  a  man,  no  matter  how  righteous 
your  cause,  the  chances  are  that  you'll  wish  you 
hadn't  collected  two  totally  different  kinds  of 
damages.  No.  The  runabout  gang  is  out  by  this 
time,  no  one  having  appeared  against  them,  and 
they  know  about  twice  as  much  as  they  did  when 


132  RACKHOUSE 

they  framed  their  first  clever  game.  What 
we  need  more  than  anything  else  is  a  few 
men  with  hair  on  their  chests  that  we  can 
pay  well — and  trust.  I've  about  exhausted  my 
list.  What  about  you?  Can't  you  think  of 
somebody?" 

Norris  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  his  gaitered 
legs  outstretched,  his  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets 
of  worn  and  stained  khaki  breeches.  "I  can't 
make  it  out,"  he  remarked. 

"Can't  make  what  out?"  asked  Jimmie. 

"That  runabout  business,"  said  Norris  "How 
they  punctured  a  rear-wheel  tire  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour  and  on  the  dot  of  the  psychological 
instant." 

"Oh,  that!"  exclaimed  Jimmie.  "Looks  hard, 
doesn't  it?  You'd  think  the  mud  guard  would  be 
in  the  way,  but  it  wasn't.  They  used  it  in  their 
business.  They  spliced  a  bent  strip  of  lath,  with 
a  nail  in  one  end,  on  the  under  side  of  the  mud 
guard  and  rigged  a  trigger.  When  Bunty  pulled 
the  string  the  end  of  the  bent  lath  was  released 
and  drove  the  nail  home  into  the  tire." 

"Of  course,"  said  Norris.  "Simple  when  you 
know  about  it." 

"So  simple,"  commented  Jimmie,  "that  I'm 
scared." 

"I've  thought  of  one  man  that  will  fill  all  your 
bill,"  said  Norris,  presently,  "and  of  another 
that's  honest." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Jimmie. 

"One  of  them  is  ex-Sergeant  Shandy  Cullom. 


RACKHOUSE  133 

He's  a  devil,  afraid  of  nothing  but  holy  water, 
and  as  honest  as  a  hot  summer  day." 

"Can  he  drive?" 

"He  can." 

"That's  one.    Who's  the  other?" 

"A  trained  manservant  named  Bronk.  He's 
out  of  a  job  just  now.  No  hand  for  a  fight,  but 
a  bulldog  on  guard  when  it  comes  to  his  master's 
clothes  or  other  property,  always  excepting  vin 
tage  Corona  cigars." 

"We  can  use  both  of  them,"  said  Jimmie, 
promptly.  "There  aren't  any  Coronas  lying 
around  here,  but  we'll  get  some  if  necessary. 
There  are  times  when  I'm  alone,  Blackie,  when 
that  safe  over  in  the  corner  looks  as  light  and  as 
frail  as  a  used  match  box.  I  get  so  I'm  afraid 
to  open  a  window  for  fear  it  will  blow  away.  I 
can  hardly  wait  to  give  this  Bulldog  Bronk  per 
son  the  kiss  of  welcome." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Norris,  "I'll  get  out  the 
roadster  and  beat  it  into  town." 

"Not  before  you  shave  and  wash  up  and  change 
your  togs,  son,"  said  Jimmie,  in  a  covered  speak 
ing-voice  which  he  used  only  in  moments  of  shame 
faced  affection. 

"Why  should  I?"  demanded  Norris,  with  a 
laugh.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  look  through 
the  drawing-rooms  of  New  York  for  Cullom  and 
a  valet  out  of  a  job?" 

"Clean  up,  boy,"  persisted  Jimmie,  quietly. 
"Get  a  grip  on  yourself."  He  looked  shrewdly 
into  Norris's  face.  "You  think  you  have  a  grip 


134  RACKHOUSE 

on  yourself,  a  stronger  one  than  you  ever  had  be 
fore.  It's  true,  too.  Your  fist  has  more  sledge 
hammer  hitting  power  and  your  eye  a  look  in  it 
that  says,  'What  I  can  reach  is  mine.'  And  you'll 
take  it,  you'll  take  with  both  hands  what  you  can 
see.  But  listen.  A  man  who  is  running  backward 
is  a  poor  picker.  He  can't  see  much." 

Norris's  eyes  grew  shifty  and  a  look  of  impa 
tience  hardened  his  face.  "Who  told  you  I  was 
running  backward?"  he  asked.  "And  if  I  am, 
how  do  you  square  it  with  your  grip-and-power 
dope?" 

"Ha  !"  exploded  Jimmie.  "Easily.  Nothing  so 
easy.  When  a  truck  bogs  in  the  mud,  what  do  you 
do?  You  try  her  forward  on  low  a  few  times,  and 
if  she  doesn't  budge  you  throw  her  into  reverse 
and  walk  her  out  backward.  Power.  All  the 
power  in  her  guts,  but  mighty  poor  steering  way. 
Think  it  out." 

"I  don't  want  to  think  it  out,"  said  Norris, 
with  an  impatient  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  "but 
just  to  please  you  I'll  go  and  doll  up.  What  about 
having  one  of  the  boys  look  over  the  roadster  for 
me — gas,  oil,  grease  in  the  cups,  and  water  in  the 
radiator?" 

"I'll  check  up  on  it  myself,"  said  Jimmie,  rising. 
He  went  out  by  the  front  door  and  around  to  the 
north  side  of  the  house,  where  a  sizable  construc 
tion  in  brick  was  apparently  under  way.  One  end 
was  completed,  and  it  contained  garaging  for 
eight  cars,  a  comfortable  bunk  room  for  thirty 
men,  underground  gasoline-storage  tanks,  a  com- 


RACKHOUSE  135 

pressed-air  outfit,  a  repair  shop,  and  a  capacious 
strong  room  in  which  were  stored  the  large  stocks 
of  liquor  on  hand.  A  little  away  from  the  new 
construction  a  bright  fresh  sign  had  been  erected, 
reading:  "Rackhouse  Incorporated.  Makers  of 
the  Famous  Mountain  Dew  Horse  Liniment. 
Every  Bottle  Guaranteed.  B.  K.  Fraling,  Con 
tractor." 

Jimmie  glanced  with  complacent  pride  at  this 
bit  of  superfluous  disguise.  To  make  the  decep 
tion  more  complete,  various  workers'  tools  and 
odds  and  ends  of  equipment,  such  as  trowels,  hods, 
barrows,  and  a  plumb  line,  had  been  taken  over 
for  cash  just  as  they  lay  at  some  noon  hour  in  the 
recent  past,  so  that  any  stranger's  casual  glance 
from  the  highway  would  acquire  an  impression 
of  momentarily  suspended  activity.  Jimmie  liked 
to  believe  that  three  passers-by  out  of  five  would 
swear  on  the  Book  before  any  court  that  they  had 
seen  half  a  dozen  bricklayers  hard  at  work. 

He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  assurance  of  the 
repair-shop  foreman  that  the  roadster  was  in  per 
fect  condition  for  a  long  run.  He  had  found  that 
a  placid  assumption  that  all  men  always  lie  was 
a  good  working  rule,  saved  lots  of  trouble,  sharp 
ened  the  cutting  edge  of  discipline,  and  seldom 
gave  offense.  Very  methodically  he  checked  up 
on  the  four  essentials  that  Norris  had  listed  and 
on  one  other  which  he  remembered  for  himself. 
His  pocket  gauge  showed  that  one  of  the  tires 
needed  twenty  pounds  more  pressure.  It  was 
not  his  way  to  crow  when  he  found  anything 


136  RACKHOUSE 

wrong;  in  that  lay  his  faculty  for  seldom  giving 
offense. 

"This  tire  shows  fifty-five,"  he  remarked.  "What 
do  you  think?  About  ten  more?" 

The  mechanic  nodded,  left  his  work,  and 
fetched  the  air  hose.  As  he  switched  off  the  pres 
sure,  capped  the  valve,  and  departed,  Norris  ap 
peared.  "Good  for  you,  Jimmie,"  he  said,  ap 
preciatively,  "you  thorough-going  wonder.  She 
looks  lovely.  Do  you  know  what  I  feel  like?" 

"No,"  said  Jimmie. 

"I  feel  like  a  boy  who  has  been  behind  plow 
horses  all  day  and  thinks  he's  tired,  until  his  dad 
tells  him  he  can  take  the  quarter-bred  stallion  out 
for  a  run." 

He  stretched  his  arms,  yawned,  shook  himself, 
and  smiled.  He  was  dressed  in  the  loose  tweeds 
and  soft  hat  which  he  had  worn  on  his  departure 
from  his  rooms  in  the  Royal  two  months  before. 
The  clothes  needed  pressing  badly,  but  they  were 
not  worn,  and  their  cut  gave  the  unmistakable 
impression  of  a  gentleman's  wear  with  the  gentle 
man  inside.  Physically  he  was  in  the  very  pink 
of  condition,  and,  except  for  a  quick  and  restless 
shifting  of  the  eyes,  was  wholly  good  to  look  upon. 

"Keep  your  eyes  steady,  Blackie,"  advised  Jim 
mie,  pouncing  unerringly  on  the  one  characteristic 
which  challenged  his  mania  for  deductive  analysis. 
"When  you're  on  the  road  I'll  bet  your  eyes  never 
swerve.  You  fix  them  on  Elmira  or  Harrisburg 
or  wherever  you're  going,  and  you  keep  them 
fixed  till  you  get  there.  Listen.  When  a  man's 


RACKHOUSE  137 

eyes  are  jumping,  his  thoughts  are  jumping  He's 
running  with  two  wheels  in  the  ditch.  The  steady- 
eyed  man  runs  on  his  private  Lincoln  Highway." 

Norris  turned  on  the  old  man  angrily.  "Oh, 
forget  it!"  he  rasped.  "Go  write  a  new  Rollo 
book.  What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

Jimmie  did  not  wait  for  more.  He  had  the 
courage  of  the  cocksure  bantam.  He  knew  that 
the  reason  the  battle  is  not  always  to  the  physically 
strong  is  because  in  every  struggle  of  the  spirit 
belligerency  has  its  own  intrinsic  weight  and  value. 
He  rustled  up  to  Norris  with  the  exact  assurance 
of  a  ruffle-feathered  mother  hen  tackling  a  Great 
Dane.  "What  do  I  take  you  for?"  he  repeated, 
in  a  combative  undertone.  "I'll  tell  you.  I  take 
you  for  a  half-hearted  bootlegger  and  an  ex-hulk 
ing  fraud.  You  hate  yourself.  Why?  Because 
you're  afraid  to  think  in  a  straight  line." 

Norris's  shoulders  suddenly  drooped.  "For 
Heaven's  sake !  Jimmie,  what  are  you  driving  at? 
Are  you  forever  trying  to  prod  my  sore  spots 
just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing?  Hell!  You've 
certainly  taken  the  sunshine  out  of  a  pleasant 
evening!" 

He  threw  in  the  clutch,  and  the  car  plunged 
forward.  Before  it  had  gone  thirty  feet  on  the 
ash-covered  incline  toward  the  highway  he  had 
changed  gears  twice,  and  by  the  time  it  hit  the 
main  road  the  sturdy  roadster  was  doing  forty 
miles  an  hour  on  high.  From  there  on,  Jimmie 
could  imagine  by  the  rapidity  with  which  the  body 
of  the  car  foreshortened  into  a  speck  in  the  dis- 


138  RACKHOUSE 

tance  how  breathlessly  the  speedometer  was  climb 
ing  to  keep  up. 

"There  he  goes  again,"  muttered  the  old  man, 
"giving  himself  something  to  think  about  he 
doesn't  need." 


Chapter  VII 

IT  was  true.  With  his  weather  eye  out  for  signs 
of  traps  and  the  dreaded  motor-bike  cop,  Nor- 
ris  was  eating  up  the  road  at  a  terrific  pace.  The 
faster  the  car  went  the  lighter  grew  his  spirits, 
and  by  the  luck  which  guards  drunkards  and  mad 
men  of  every  category  he  made  town  without 
arrest  and  in  record  time.  Once  well  within  the 
maze  of  the  city,  he  dawdled  along.  He  had 
something  besides  speed  to  distract  his  thoughts. 
He  wanted  to  find  Cullom  and  was  at  a  loss  where 
to  look  for  him.  He  stopped  at  the  dance  hall 
with  little  hope  and  for  lack  of  a  surer  cue.  The 
place  at  that  early  evening  hour  was  almost  de 
serted.  It  looked  like  an  echoing  barn;  but  it 
reminded  him  of  Millie. 

His  abandonment  of  an  astonishingly  success 
ful  career  as  a  masked  beggar  had  been  very  sud 
den  indeed.  After  the  epoch-making  night  when 
he  and  Jimmie  had  talked  over  till  morning  the 
latter's  scheme  for  bootlegging  on  a  majestic 
scale,  the  mere  thought  of  trundling  an  organ  for 
the  sake  of  acquiring  the  small  change  in  the 
pockets  of  the  compassionate  had  become  nauseat 
ing.  As  mysteriously  and  abruptly  as  he  had  ap 
peared,  the  Black  Mask  vanished  from  the  streets, 

139 


RACKHOUSE 

leaving  in  the  hearts  of  a  horde  of  newspaper  men 
a  sense  of  puzzled  defeat  and  in  the  mind  of  the 
public  a  warm  feeling  of  wonder,  for  once  un 
spoiled  by  prosaic  discovery. 

Why  had  he  gone,  and  where?  Up  to  the  day 
of  his  disappearance,  interest  in  him  had  not  yet 
had  time  to  flag.  The  flow  of  coins  into  the  hat, 
and  thence  to  the  bag  inside  the  hurdy-gurdy,  had 
still  been  as  steady  as  the  long  hours  of  the  work 
ing  day,  when,  presto!  he  was  gone.  People  who 
had  given  money  to  him  felt  grateful  that  they 
had  been  in  time.  Wise  heads  in  the  news  room 
recognized  the  master  touch  of  the  amateur  who 
quits  upon  the  successful  demonstration  of  a 
theory,  not  hanging  on  as  does  the  professional 
fraud  up  to  and  over  the  verge  of  disclosure  and 
a  jail  sentence.  These  latter  speculated  very 
shrewdly  as  to  the  amount  the  Black  Mask  had 
taken  in  during  the  ten  days  of  his  masquerade  and 
languidly  watched  announcements  of  donations  to 
post-war  charitable  activities  for  a  possible  clew 
to  his  identity.  Finding  none,  some  of  them 
smiled  cynically. 

Norris  had  found  it  very  e^sy  to  change  his 
mode  of  life  for  the  second  time.  All  he  had 
done  was  to  lock  up  the  little  garage  apartment 
and  put  himself  and  his  $5,000  in  Jimmie's  hands. 
They  had  had  an  exceedingly  busy  day,  and  it  was 
only  at  evening  that  the  Black  Mask  had  sud 
denly  struck  his  brow  and  hastened  to  Smudge 
Alley  as  fast  as  his  long  legs  could  carry  him.  He 
had  remembered  the  monkey.  The  little  beast 


RACKHOUSE  141 

was  by  that  time  too  well  known  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Manhattan  to  be  carried 
around  by  a  broad-shouldered  young  man  without 
giving  a  strong  hint  to  the  curious,  and  as  a  con 
sequence  he  presented  a  serious  problem. 

Norris  decided  to  feed  and  water  him  for  the 
night  and  think  up  in  the  meantime  some  way  of 
permanent  disposal;  but  upon  arrival  at  his  hid 
den  home  he  found  Millie  waiting  nervously,  and 
to  the  impatience  of  his  troubled  mind  she  seemed 
to  offer  an  easy  and  adequate  solution.  If  Millie 
had  nothing  better  to  do  with  her  evenings  than 
to  minister  to  the  Black  Mask's  needs,  she  could 
easily  drop  around  for  five  minutes  to  feed  the 
Black  Mask's  monkey. 

"Where  you  been?"  she  demanded,  as  he  had 
approached.  "Where  you  been  all  day?" 

"Never  mind  where  I've  been,"  Norris  had  re 
plied.  "Come  in  here.  I  want  to  show  you  how 
to  do  for  the  monkey,  and  then  I'm  going  to  give 
you  the  keys  and  you're  going  to  come  here  every 
day  and  look  after  him." 

"Every  day,"  mimicked  Millie.  "I'm  to  come 
here  every  day  to  look  after  a  monk!" 

"Exactly,"  snapped  Norris,  turning  to  give  her 
a  straight,  hard  look.  "Are  you  going  to  do  it 
or  aren't  you?  Say  quick  or  I'll  kill  the  monkey 
and  you  can  go  to  the  devil." 

Evidently  he  was  not  of  those  who  have  to 
learn  the  same  lesson  twice,  and  the  distance  he 
had  traveled  since  Jimmie  had  shown  him  how  to 
make  a  girl  of  Millie's  traditions  sit  back  com- 


142  RACKHOUSE 

fortably  in  a  chair  can  be  measured  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  not  even  conscious  of  his  brutality. 

Millie's  eyes  dropped  and  an  irregular  flush 
mottled  her  cheeks.  "Sure  I'll  do  it,  Blackie.  Of 
course  I'll  do  what  you  tell  me.  Give  me  the  keys. 
You  needn't  even  stay  if  you  don't  want  to.  I'll 
know  what  to  do  for  him.  Just  you  tell  me  one 
thing.  Are  you  with  Jimmie  or  have  you  gone 
back?" 

"Gone  back  where?"  Norris  said,  quickly. 

"Never  mind,"  replied  the  girl,  .  hurriedly. 
"You  just  tell  me  if  you're  with  Jimmie.  Are 
you?" 

"Yes,"  Norris  had  replied  shortly,  turned, 
hastened  away,  and  had  never  once  thought  of 
Millie  or  her  charge  until  he  entered  the  cheap 
dance  hall  in  his  search  for  Cullom.  Now  he 
wondered  if  he  might  not  find  the  girl  at  her  post 
if  he  hurried,  and  get  help  from  her.  He  rushed 
down  to  the  roadster,  and  ten  minutes  later  drew 
up  at  the  mouth  of  Smudge  Alley.  A  light  was 
burning  in  the  little  apartment,  and  to  his  amaze 
ment  he  heard  a  man's  exasperated  tones  issuing 
through  the  loosely  closed  door.  He  recognized 
the  voice  of  Dick  Page. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  stars  in  heaven,"  it  was 
saying,  "the  little  stars,  the  five-and-ten-cent-store 
stars,  the  chip-diamond  stars  of  a  soft  spring  night, 
can't  you  girls  open  your  faces  and  talk,  twist  your 
lips  and  smile,  or  untwine  your  legs  and  beat  it 
out  of  my  apartment?" 

Norris   hesitated   for   a  moment,   came   to   a 


RACKHOUSE  143 

decision,  pushed  open  the  unlocked  door,  and 
walked  in.  "What's  the  matter,  Dick?"  he  asked, 
with  an  assurance  which  was  astonishing  because 
it  was  so  unconscious. 

"Roddy!"  cried  Dick,  whirling  on  his  heel.  His 
eyes  were  alight  and  his  lips  had  formed  to  add 
one  of  his  rough,  yet  endearing,  interjections  to 
the  salutation,  when  a  full  look  at  Norris's  face 
choked  the  words  in  his  mouth.  He  was  no  fool. 
He  did  not  ask  what  had  come  over  Roderic 
Norris,  because  he  could  see.  His  friend  of  but 
two  months  past  had  coarsened  and  hardened. 
He  was  not  only  a  stranger,  but  a  stranger  whose 
manner  was  bound  to  arouse  others  to  combat  on 
sight. 

Page  was  a  little  stunned  by  the  instantaneous 
realization  of  estrangement,  but  he  recovered 
rapidly  as  his  spirit  scented  the  implication  of  chal 
lenge  in  Norris's  manner.  His  face  grew  sober. 
He  turned,  selected  a  straight-backed  chair,  and 
sat  down,  straddling  it. 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter,"  he  said,  in  a 
level  tone  of  voice.  "When  I  nearly  let  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  I  thought 
I'd  better  get  myself  out  of  the  way.  I  knocked 
around  the  country  for  a  while,  grew  bored,  and 
decided  I'd  run  out  to  French  Lick  and  make  a 
killing.  The  killing  came  off,  all  right,  but  I  am 
the  corpse.  It  struck  me  that  the  most  sensible 
thing  to  do  in  a  case  like  that  was  to  beat  it  for 
burial  in  my  own  little  hearth  and  home.  I  ar 
rive.  I  bang  on  the  door,  answer  yes  to  a  feminine 
10 


144  RACKHOUSE 

voice  asking,  'Is  that  you,  Blackie?'  am  admitted, 
and  find  two  young  ladies  in  possession  of  every 
thing  but  their  tongues." 

Norris  stared  at  Millie  and  her  friend  Gladys, 
and  then  glanced  hurriedly  about  the  apartment. 
The  telltale  organ  had  been  wheeled  behind  a 
screen  and  the  monkey  removed,  possibly  to  the 
kitchen.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  to  be 
tray  the  fact  that  it  had  been  the  hiding  place  of 
the  Black  Mask.  To  the  world  in  general  it  al 
ready  mattered  very  little  who  had  impersonated 
the  maimed  officer  of  mystery,  but  some  instinct 
of  self-preservation  told  Norris  that  it  still  mat 
tered  very  much  to  himself.  He  had  had  several 
meetings  with  Gladys  both  before  and  after  mov 
ing  to  Rackhouse,  but  never  once  had  he  betrayed 
either  his  identity  or  his  recent  association  with  a 
hurdy-gurdy.  Now  he  was  worried  solely  as  to 
whether  Page  had  come  back  only  to  give  him 
away. 

"What  have  you  been  saying  ?"  he  asked.  "You 
may  still  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  if  you  try  hard 
enough." 

Page  glanced  at  the  girls,  frowsy  Millie  seated 
in  her  favorite  deep  chair  with  one  foot  doubled 
under  her,  and  Gladys  perched  in  the  middle  of 
the  couch,  with  her  legs  crossed  so  that  she  showed 
two  very  round  and  attractive  knees  clad  in  im 
ported  silk  at  fifteen  dollars  the  pair. 

"I  haven't  been  saying  things,"  he  remarked, 
finally.  "I've  been  asking  questions  of  your  new 
friends — where  they  came  from,  what  they  were 


RACKHOUSE  145 

doing  here,  and  if  they  wouldn't  please  get  up 
and  get  out.  They  have  sat  just  as  you  see  them 
for  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour,  giving  me  a  glassy 
stare,  but  never  a  word  and  never  a  move." 

"Well,"  said  Norris,  coolly,  "I've  always  meant 
to  pay  rent  for  this  shack.  Why  shouldn't  they 
be  here?" 

Dick's  hands  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair  so 
that  his  knuckles  showed  white.  He  tipped  it  for 
ward  as  though  he  were  about  to  leap  over  it. 
"I  have  nothing  against  these  two  girls,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  "but  I  prefer  to  answer  that  ques 
tion  when  they  are  out  of  hearing." 

"What    do  you    mean?"    demanded    Norris, 
threateningly. 

Page's  chair  tipped  forward  another  inch  and 
his  slim  body  began  to  quiver  like  an  arrow 
on  a  taut  string.  "I  mean,"  he  said,  quickly, 
"that  in  some  mysterious  manner  you  have 
acquired  all  the  markings  of  a  hypocrite,  you  hulk 
ing  swine." 

To  the  surprise  of  every  one  in  the  room,  him 
self  included,  Norris  did  not  make  an  instant  for 
ward  movement.  His  body  trembled  and  his  chin 
went  up  exactly  as  though  he  had  been  struck  a 
staggering  blow.  For  the  second  time  in  the  same 
day  he  had  been  floored  by  words  hurled  from 
the  sling  of  contempt  for  his  insincerity.  Even 
so,  he  could  have  smashed  Page,  as  he  wished  to 
do  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  had  his  eyes  not  met 
those  of  the  younger  man  and  seen  in  their  blazing 
depths  that  directness  of  vision  which  measures  no 


146  RACKHOUSE 

odds  and  triumphs  most  gloriously  in  overwhelm 
ing  defeat. 

So  sure  had  Dick  been  of  immediate  attack, 
that  he  almost  lost  his  balance.  He  regained 
equilibrium  with  difficulty,  but  never  took  his  eyes 
from  Norris's  face.  "I  loaned  you  this  apart 
ment  for  a  definite  purpose,"  he  continued,  after 
the  infinitesimal  pause  which  had  exposed  Norris's 
fatal  indecision,  "and  you  know  it.  There  is 
nothing  here — nothing  of  mine,  I  mean — that  you 
have  bought  and  paid  for.  You  know  that,  too. 
There's  just  one  thing  that  a  man  with  any  de 
cency  left  in  him  doesn't — Well,  I  won't  say  it." 

"No,"  said  Norris  quickly,  "you  don't  have  to 
— not  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  You've  said  it 
all.  Come  on,  girls.  Let's  get  out  of  here." 

Instantly  the  girls  came  to  life.  Millie  sprang 
to  her  feet,  and  Gladys  made  straight  for  the 
mirror  with  the  courageous  air  of  a  pretty  woman 
who  must  see  if  her  hat  is  straight  though  the 
heavens  fall.  Norris  stood  with  his  frame 
strangely  relaxed,  giving  an  impression  not  so 
much  of  defeat  as  of  absence.  It  was  as  though 
the  two  Roderic  Norrises — the  bully  of  to-day 
and  the  hail-fellow-well-met  of  so  many  happy 
yesterdays — had  both  abandoned  his  body  for  a 
space,  leaving  it  literally  inanimate,  incapable  of 
any  of  the  emotions  of  avarice  or  generosity  and 
wholly  pitiable. 

As  though  in  answer  to  an  appeal  arising  from 
some  impulse  within  himself,  Page  sprang  erect. 
"No,  you  don't,"  he  said,  passing  a  hand  across 


RACKHOUSE  147 

his  brow  and  through  his  hair.  "I  don't  know 
what  I've  been  thinking  of  or  what  I've  been  say 
ing.  I  take  it  all  back,  every  dirty  word.  You  are 
my  friend — Roddy — the  best  and  warmest  friend 
a  man  ever  had.  I  don't  care  what's  happened 
to  change  you.  You're  there,  somewhere  inside, 
and  if  my  friend  goes  to  hell  I  go  with 
him.  I  mean  it,  Roddy.  I  take  back  what  I 
said,  all  that  I  said,  and  the  things  I  thought. 
Chuck  off  your  hats,  girls.  If  there's  anything  to 
eat  in  the  house  we're  going  to  eat  it." 

Millie  stood  stock-still  and  stared  at  him  with 
widening  eyes;  Gladys  turned  from  the  mirror 
with  hands  still  raised  to  her  hair,  and  murmured, 
impersonally,  "Shell  shock."  Norris  came  to  life. 
A  surge  of  color  swept  up  from  his  neck  across 
his  face  as  though  marking  the  returning  tide  of 
blood  to  his  veins.  He  reached  out,  caught  Dick's 
elbows,  and  gripped  them  hard  with  trembling 
hands.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  a  torrent  of 
words  was  about  to  pour  from  his  lips,  but  in  the 
end  he  said  nothing  to  his  friend.  Instead,  he 
turned  to  Millie. 

"What  about  it?"  he  asked.  "Is  there  anything 
to  eat?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  replied  Millie,  and  added, 
meaningly,  "only  bananas.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Norris,  hurriedly.  He  half 
turned  toward  Dick.  "You  see,  I  haven't  been 
here  for  the  best  part  of  two  months.  Millie 
drops  in  every  evening  to  feed  a  pet  of  mine.  I 
came  to-night  to  find  Shandy  Cullom.  I've  got  a 


148  RACKHOUSE 

job  for  him  at  a  hundred  a  week.  Can  you  lay 
your  hands  on  him,  Millie?" 

The  girl  thought  for  a  moment.  "Not  to 
night,"  she  answered,  "but  I  could  get  him  for 
you  in  the  morning." 

"One  minute,"  said  Dick.  "Did  I  hear  you 
aright,  Roddy?  Did  you  say  a  job  for  Shandy 
at  a  hundred  a  week?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Norris,  listlessly. 

"I  have  heard  somewhere  that  miracles  come 
in  pairs,"  continued  Page.  "Supposing — just  sup 
posing — that  that  job  has  a  twin  sister.  What 
would  a  man  have  to  be  and  do  to  get  her?" 

The  question  soaked  slowly  into  Norris's  con 
sciousness,  but,  once  it  had  penetrated  to  his  brain, 
every  muscle  in  his  body  seemed  to  tauten  and  a 
shrewd,  calculating  look  crept  gradually  into  his 
eyes.  He  looked  Dick  over  as  minutely  as  a  buyer 
examines  a  horse  offered  in  barter,  measured  him 
against  the  past  and  a  possible  future,  balanced 
probable  eventualities  against  risks,  and  finally 
suggested  that  they  all  sit  down.  Thinking  better 
of  his  inclusion  of  the  girls,  he  turned  to  Millie 
with  a  nod  of  dismissal. 

"You  and  Gladys  had  better  wash  up,"  he  said. 
"In  the  bedroom.  I'll  tell  you  when  we're  ready 
to  go  out." 

The  girls  obeyed  unquestioningly.  As  they 
passed  out  of  the  room  Page  murmured  in  frank 
admiration:  "I'll  say  you've  got  them  well 
trained.  I've  heard  of  men  handling  women  that 
way,  but  I've  never  seen  it  before." 


RACKHOUSE  149 

Norris  paid  no  heed  to  the  remark.  "How 
hard  up  are  you,  Dick?"  he  asked. 

"An  absolute  has  no  comparative,"  said  Page, 
promptly.  "I'm  not  hard  up;  I'm  broke.  Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"Because,"  said  Norris,  "as  it  happens,  there  is 
a  twin  job  to  the  one  I'm  offering  Shandy." 

"You  don't  mean  his  job?"  questioned  Dick, 
quickly.  "You  mean  that  there  are  actually  twin 
orphans  at  a  hundred  a  week  looking  for  adop 
tion?" 

"I  do,"  replied  Norris,  and  waited. 

"Well,"  said  Dick,  after  a  pause,  "one  can't 
expect  that  price  as  the  market  value  of  the  brand 
of  incompetence  shared  by  Shandy  and  myself,  so 
I'll  just  ask  you  to  point  out  the  nigger  in  the 
woodpile." 

"Not  so  fast,"  said  Norris,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"There  are  two  sides  to  this  deal,  whether  you 
fall  for  it  or  not.  I'll  ask  you  to  remember  that." 

Page's  face  hardened  while  his  frank  eyes 
widened.  "So  that's  it,  is  it?"  he  murmured. 
"Well,  you  don't  have  to  tell  me,  Roddy,  that  in 
asking  you  to  speak  out  I  bind  myself  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 

Norris  nodded.  "How  do  you  feel  about  pro 
hibition?"  he  asked. 

Dick  stared  at  him  wonderingly.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  answer  that?" 

"Yes,"  said  Norris.    "That's  why  I  asked  you." 

"Well,"  complied  Dick,  "I  could  tell  you  in  two 
hours,  talking  fast,  but  we  haven't  time  for  that, 


150  RACKHOUSE 

so  I'll  just  say  I  feel  sore,  as  sore  as  a  gouty  toe 
that's  been  stepped  on  while  its  owner  wasn  t 
looking." 

"That's  all  right  as  far  as  it  goes,"  said 
Norris,  with  deliberation,  "but  it  doesn't  go  far 
enough." 

"By  the  expression  on  your  face,"  continued 
Dick,  "I  perceive  that  you  are  not  trying  to  make 
me  laugh.  If  I  had  the  price  of  a  motor  car,  I'd 
take  you  out  anywhere  in  the  country  and  show 
you  what  I  mean." 

"I've  got  a  car  outside,"  said  Norris,  "but  let 
that  wait.  Here's  the  dope.  My  partner  and  I 
have  legal  possession  of  a  large  quantity  of 
liquor.  I  mean  we  carry  a  regular  stock  of  several 
hundred  cases  and  add  to  it  whenever  a  scare 
drives  down  the  price  of  bonded  warehouse  certif 
icates.  We  also  have  official  permits  for  removal, 
but  so  far  it  has  happened  that  every  truck  load 
we  have  sent  out  to  our  various  plants  has  been 
intercepted  by  somebody's  bank  roll." 

"I  begin  to  see,"  interrupted  Page,  his  eyes 
narrowing. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  asked  Roddy.  "Let  me  get 
through.  Our  trucks  are  the  most  powerful  to 
be  had  for  money  and  are  little  short  of  armored 
lorries.  They  generally  carry  a  crew  of  three 
gunmen,  and  a  captain  at  the  wheel.  One  or  the 
other  of  them  was  attacked  by  bandits  seven 
times  in  our  first  six  weeks  of  operation.  The  only 
load  that  got  clean  away  from  us  was  one  which 
was  stolen  and  restolen  three  times  in  forty  miles. 


RACKHOUSE  151 

I'm  telling  you  all  this  to  show  you  that  we  aren't 
offering  exactly  baby's  pap  in  the  line  of  jobs." 

During  the  laconic  recital,  Dick's  face  had  gone 
through  a  gamut  of  varying  expressions.  His 
thoughts  traveled  at  a  furious  rate  and  jumped 
at  full  speed  from  one  track  to  another.  First  he 
realized  vaguely  that  in  some  manner  the  person 
and  honor  of  himself,  Richard  Page,  were  up  for 
sale.  Then  he  followed  a  troubled  line  of  specu 
lation  as  to  whether  the  effect  of  surrender  would 
be  to  coarsen  him  as  Roddy  Norris  had  been 
coarsened  in  an  incredibly  brief  period  of  time. 
Finally,  he  thought  not  of  himself,  but  of  his 
friend.  Had  he  been  insincere  when  he  had  cried 
out  that  if  his  friends  went  to  hell,  he  would  go 
with  them?  Perhaps  he  had.  Perhaps  he  meant 
only  that  he  would  gladly  throw  himself  into  any 
torrent  in  the  desperate  hope  of  pulling  a  pal  to 
land. 

But  through  and  above  every  rush  of  his  chang 
ing  thoughts  trembled  the  pennant  of  adventure, 
dazzling  his  eyes,  stirring  his  blood,  calling  to 
him  down  all  the  generations  of  men  who  have 
risked  their  lives  for  a  thrill  at  a  dollar  a  day 
and  less. 

"Roddy,"  he  said,  rather  breathlessly,  uy°u're 
not  drawing  a  long  bow?" 

"There's  just  one  way  to  find  out,"  said  Norris, 
confidently,  watching  Page  with  the  eyes  of  a  cat 
at  a  mouse  hole.  "Come  and  see." 

"Shake  on  that,"  said  Dick,  reaching  out  a  hand 
impulsively.  "I'll  sign  on  for  a  trial." 


152  RACKHOUSE 

Norris  took  the  proffered  hand  and  crushed 
it  till  the  knuckles  cracked.  Such  an  action  com 
monly  passes  for  friendly  horseplay,  but,  seeing 
it,  Jimmie  would  have  recognized  it  at  once 
as  one  of  the  surest  indications  of  a  hidden 
undertow  of  subconscious  intention,  vaguely 
malicious,  subtly  triumphant.  Dick  cried  aloud 
for  mercy. 

"Ouch!  Quit  it!  Whatever  you've  been  do 
ing,  you're  certainly  in  training." 

At  his  cry  the  girls  issued  forth  from  the  bed 
room  as  though  they  had  been  summoned.  Norris 
stared  at  Gladys  with  frankly  hungry  eyes, 
and  presently  came  to  a  decision.  "You  know 
what  you  said  about  showing  me,  Dick,"  he 
reminded.  "Let's  go,  and  take  the  girls  along. 
They're  both  good  dancers  and  we'd  look  silly 
all  alone." 

"That's  all  right  with  me,"  said  Page, 
promptly,  "but  I  hate  being  a  deadhead.  Leave 
me  out  till  I've  worked  a  week." 

"We'll  take  it  that  you  have,"  said  Norris, 
drawing  a  roll  of  money  from  his  pocket  and 
counting  out  a  hundred  dollars.  "That  isn't  from 
me,"  he  added,  as  he  handed  the  notes  to  Dick. 
"It's  an  honest-to-goodness  earnest  payment  from 
Rackhouse  Incorporated  for  value  received  twice 
over.  Consider  yourself  bound." 

Page  stood  for  a  moment  without  moving,  the 
money  held  loosely  in  his  hand.  Once  more  his 
thoughts  began  to  race  and  to  jump,  but  before 
they  could  reach  any  one  of  half  a  dozen  goals, 


RACKHOUSE  153 

Gladys  put  in  the  oar  of  her  tongue  and  the  weight 
of  her  small  hand  and  scattered  them  to  the  four 
winds. 

"He  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  it,  Blackie," 
she  shrilled.  "He's  too  young.  Here,  give  it  to 
granny." 

She  reached  out,  snatched  away  the  notes,  pulled 
up  her  short  skirt,  and  tucked  them  deftly  into 
the  roll  of  her  stocking. 

Everybody  laughed,  Dick  loudest  of  all. 
"Hand  it  back,  cutie,"  he  cried,  "or  take  the 
consequences." 

"Don't  use  those  long  words,"  cautioned 
Gladys;  "you  might  stumble  and  hurt  yourself. 
You  aren't  a  deadhead  any  longer.  I'll  pay  for 
everything  while  the  money  lasts.  Come  on, 
Blackie;  come  on  everybody." 

"And  I  thought  she  was  bashful  and  tongue- 
tied,"  murmured  Dick,  ruefully.  He  followed 
Gladys  to  the  front  door  and  added,  in  his  most 
ingratiating  manner,  "Don't  you  think  it  would 
look  better  for  me  to  pay  the  bills?" 

"Nothing  on  earth  looks  better  to  me  than  a 
hundred  dollars,  sonny,"  said  the  girl,  coolly, 
"unless  it's  two  hundred.  You  had  your  turn; 
now  forget  it.  Whoever  claws  that  money  loose 
again,"  she  added,  with  a  twinkle  of  mischief, 
"has  got  to  climb  for  it." 

As  Norris  started  to  join  the  two  at  the  door, 
Millie  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Wait  for  me," 
she  whispered.  "I  haven't  fed  it." 

Dick's    ears   were    phenomenally    quick.      He 


154  RACKHOUSE 

turned  and  asked,  casually,  over  his  shoulder, 
"Fed  what?" 

"Oh,  the  monk!"  said  Gladys,  impatiently. 
"Blackie  has  an  idea  that  I  didn't  know  from  the 
first  minute  I  lamped  him  that  he  was  the  Black 
Mask  the  papers  were  groggy  about.  He  took 
me  for  a  pigeon.  Thought  I'd  squeal  to  the  first 
news  hound  I  could  find.  Huh!"  She  flung  a 
friendly  jeering  glance  at  Norris's  flushed  face. 

"The  monkey!"  cried  Dick.  "Why,  of  course! 
Let's  take  him  along,"  he  begged.  "I'll  feel  so 
much  happier  if  there  are  two  of  us." 

The  girls  laughed  gayly  and  cast  surprised 
looks  at  Page.  They  were  only  beginning  to 
know  him,  but  were  quick  to  recognize  the  genius 
of  a  natural  sworn  enemy  to  gloom.  His  pres 
ence  alone  promised  an  atmosphere  of  efferves 
cent  wine,  and  already  it  had  begun  to  go  to  their 
heads.  They  scented  a  good  time  and  giggled 
nervously,  as  is  the  way  of  woman  on  the  way  to 
a  real  party.  Not  so  Norris.  He  frowned  for 
a  moment  in  the  concentration  of  his  thoughts, 
trying  to  trace  out  what  difference  it  made  that 
Gladys  had  known  of  his  identity  and  what  it 
mattered  if  the  whole  world  should  guess  his 
secret. 

Dick  seemed  to  read  his  mind.  "Why  not, 
Roddy?"  he  asked.  "Nobody  is  going  to  con 
nect  the  monkey  with  past  history,  and  even  if 
they  do,  since  we're  together,  they  won't  have 
any  more  cause  to  pin  him  on  you  than  on  me." 

"That's  so,"  said  Norris,  his  brow  clearing. 


RACKHOUSE  155 

"Let's  take  the  beast  and  lock  up  the  place  for 
good." 

Dick  rushed  after  Millie  into  the  kitchen,  and 
presently  returned,  carrying  the  chattering 
monkey  on  his  shoulder,  its  light  nickel  chain 
wrapped  loosely  around  his  arm.  "He  recognized 
me  at  once!"  he  exclaimed.  "He's  telling  me 
every  little  thing  that's  happened  since  we  were 
parted!" 

Norris  raised  the  rumble  of  the  roadster  and 
nodded  to  Millie  to  climb  into  it.  The  arrange 
ment  of  the  rest  of  the  party  became  automatic; 
Gladys  took  the  seat  beside  the  driver,  and  to 
Dick  with  the  monkey  was  left  the  Hobson's 
choice  of  the  restricted  space  at  Millie's  side. 
He  accepted  his  lot  with  a  gallant  smile,  and, 
since  the  powerful  little  car  had  been  stripped  of 
its  top,  he  could  lean  forward  and  converse  with 
Gladys  at  will,  even  more  conveniently  than  could 
Norris.  For  the  first  few  miles,  however,  all  his 
attention  was  devoted  to  keeping  the  frightened 
monkey  from  entangling  and  strangling  himself 
in  his  chain. 

They  sped  across  the  Williamsburg  Bridge  and 
out  into  Long  Island.  Norris  and  the  girls  were 
for  the  most  part  silent,  but  Page  and  his  charge 
kept  up  an  incessant  chatter,  a  sort  of  endurance 
test  in  words  and  nonsense,  which  more  than  once 
aroused  peals  of  laughter  and  ended  in  an  over 
whelming  victory  for  Dick.  As  they  reached  the 
region  of  the  more  pretentious  shore  estates, 
Gladys  leaned  toward  Norris  and  touched  his  arm. 


156  RACKHOUSE 

"Do  you  see  the  little  house  near  the  road?" 
she  asked.  "No,  silly.  Up  on  the  left." 

Norris  nodded.  "That's  the  lodge  for  the 
Behren  place." 

"Well,  it's  for  rent,  separate  and  by  its  little 
self,"  said  Gladys.  "What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"I  think  they  must  be  feeling  the  pinch,  like 
every  one  else,"  replied  Norris,  indifferently. 

"Every  one  but  you,"  commented  Gladys,  with 
a  laugh.  "You  ain't  feeling  any  pinch  so  your 
friends  can  notice  it." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Norris,  "hand  that  hundred 
back  to  Dick." 

Gladys  pouted  unnoticed.  "Will  you  take  that 
little  house  if  I  do?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"What  for?"  asked  Norris. 

"Oh,  for  parties." 

"No,  I  won't." 

"Then  I  won't  hand  back  the  hundred.  I  need 
it." 

"Oh  yes,  you  will!"  said  Norris.  "But  just  be 
cause  you've  been  a  good  sport  about  keeping  your 
mouth  shut  about  who  I  am,  and  for  no  other 
reason,  mind  you,  I'll  square  the  hundred  with  you 
when  no  one  is  looking.  Get  ready  to  hand  the 
roll  to  Dick  when  we  leave  the  car." 


Chapter  VIII 

TEN  minutes  later  the  party  of  four  was  enter 
ing  the  Blue  Heron  Inn.  The  combined 
dicing  and  dance  hall  was  ablaze  with  multicol 
ored  lights.  Tables  were  arranged  in  a  large  oval 
oil  x  dais  raised  eight  inches  above  the  level  of 
the  glassy  floor.  On  a  platform  at  one  end  was 
massed  a  full  string  orchestra,  equipped,  in  addi 
tion,  with  the  proper  barbaric  implements  for  the 
rendering  of  jazz  music  at  its  loudest.  The  room 
was  not  crowded  to  capacity,  but  was  still  quite 
full  with  men  and  women  of  all  sorts  and  condi 
tions  who  had  felt  the  call  of  early  spring  and 
answered  it  like  cattle  moving  from  one  salt  lick 
to  another. 

While  Norris  and  his  companions  were  still  in 
the  wide  entrance  which  gave  directly  upon  the 
dining  room,  the  head  waiter  hurried  forward, 
bowing  low,  and  said  to  Page  in  his  most  ingrati 
ating  manner,  "Glad  to  see  you  again,  sir,  but  you 
can't  bring  in  the  monkey,  sir." 

"Don't  be  a  rube,  Pierre,"  answered  Dick, 
coolly  and  without  stopping.  "This  isn't  a  real 
monkey.  It's  the  latest  Japanese  toy.  Every 
body  will  have  them  before  you  know  it,  and  if  you 
once  start  shutting  them  out,  your  joint  will 

157 


158  RACKHOUSE 

be  as  empty  as  the  halls  of  Tara.     Which  is  our 
table?" 

Pierre  stared  unbelievingly  at  the  little  monkey 
and  the  monkey,  frightened  into  coma  by  the  lights 
and  noise,  crouched  low  on  Dick's  shoulder  and 
stared  back  unblinkingly. 

"May  I  feel  him,  sir?" 

"You  can  take  your  choice,"  answered 
Dick,  "between  touching  him  and  touching  me 
for  a  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  entertain 
ment." 

Pierre  did  not  hesitate.  "Did  you  bring  your 
own?"  he  asked. 

"No,  we  didn't,"  said  Dick.  "Fetch  double 
cocktails  and  two  separate  pints  of  Scotch.  Never 
mind  the  tariff,  but  think  twice  before  you  hand 
us  anything  phony.  Just  to  make  a  show,  you 
can  put  on  a  two-quart  pitcher  of  your  least  ex 
pensive  fruit-cup,  banana  flavor." 

"I  think  you've  thought  of  everything,  Dick," 
said  Norris,  as  they  seated  themselves.  He  had 
had  a  hard  day  and  he  was  hungry;  so  were  the 
rest  of  the  party.  A  dance  was  in  progress  and 
the  monkey  had  not  been  noticed.  Page  put  him 
under  the  table,  looping  the  chain  around  its  leg, 
and  as  soon  as  the  fruit-cup  appeared  Millie  be 
gan  fishing  slices  of  banana  from  its  depths  and 
slipping  them  surreptitiously  beneath  the  shelter 
ing,  low-hanging  cloth. 

"He  must  be  frightened,  he's  so  quiet,"  she 
said,  solicitously.  "Do  you  think  I  might  take  a 
peek  at  him?" 


RACKHOUSE  159 

"Just  to  stir  him  up  and  get  us  thrown  out?" 
asked  Dick.  "Take  a  peek  at  me  instead." 

During  the  long  ride  from  town  and  in  the 
interludes  of  his  banter  he  had  begun  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  Millie.  At  first  she  had  seemed 
wholly  negligible,  a  mere  colorless  spot  on  the 
ground  map  of  humanity,  but  when  he  found  that 
her  long  silences  did  not  arise  from  shyness,  and 
that  her  tongue,  when  it  spoke,  had  the  snap  of  a 
whip ;  when  he  learned  that  her  wit  was  quick  to 
follow  the  intelligence  of  her  strangely  burning 
eyes — he  began  slowly  to  realize  that  she  was  the 
possessor  of  as  clean-cut  an  individuality  as  a 
Siamese  cat.  One  phase  of  her  demeanor  had 
especially  piqued  his  curiosity.  Since  she  had 
been  so  docile  about  taking  a  seat  in  the  rumble, 
why  had  her  body  quivered  like  an  aspen  leaf 
every  time  Gladys  leaned  toward  Roddy  or 
touched  him  familiarly? 

Norris  and  Gladys  got  up  to  dance  to  while 
away  the  time  of  waiting  for  food,  but  Dick 
made  no  move.  Instead,  he  stared  at  Millie 
until  she  became  self-conscious,  flushed,  and 
commanded,  sharply,  "Say,  switch  off  the 
headlights." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  I  told  you  what  I'm 
thinking?"  asked  Dick,  with  a  teasing  smile. 

"Bull !"  said  Millie,  apathetically.  "Men  don't 
think." 

"What  do  they  do?" 

"Eat.     They  eat  things — work  and  food  and 

women  and  tin  cans." 
11 


160  RACKHOUSE 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Dick,  "that  man  is  al 
ways  the  goat?" 

"Yes,"  snapped  Millie,  her  eyes  wandering 
longingly  to  the  inviting  floor,  "when  he  isn't  the 
ninny.  Say,  can  you  hear  the  band  from  where 
we're  sitting?" 

Dick  laughed  aloud,  as  pleased  as  a  boy  with 
a  bunch  of  firecrackers  that  he  had  mistakenly 
thought  were  damp.  "Listen"  he  said.  "I  like 
you.  Now  don't  get  sore.  I  mean  it.  I've  got 
to  leave  you  for  a  few  minutes,  but  when  I  come 
back  I'll  dance  your  feet  off.  Wait  for  me." 

He  arose  and  left  her.  As  he  passed  out  of 
the  room  and  asked  his  way  to  the  telephone 
booth,  his  face  gradually  sobered.  He  called  up 
Miss  Ardsley.  "Is  that  you,  Ruth?  Yes,  you 
guessed  it.  I  got  back  this  evening.  Listen,  Ruth. 
I'm  with  Roddy."  There  was  a  long  pause,  and 
then  Dick's  voice  continued:  "Well,  he's  traveled 
a  long  way  away,  but  I  caught  his  coat  tails  just 
as  he  was  going  over  the  horizon,  and  it's  an  even 
chance  which  can  pull  hardest.  I  don't  know  why 
he  took  the  road  he's  taken  any  more  than  you 
do.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  I'm  with  him." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  suddenly  broken 
by  the  resuming  of  Dick's  voice.  "That's  where 
you're  wrong,"  he  said,  heatedly.  "I'm  not  mak 
ing  any  bets  on  Roddy.  I'm  just  with  him.  As 
for  your  string  of  questions,  doesn't  it  strike  you 
that  it's  strange  you  and  I  and  Rocksie,  of  all 
people,  should  be  asking  them?  Of  course  there's 
an  answer,  and  if  we  quit  cold  before  we  get  it 


RACKHOUSE  161 

straight  we're  not  friends,  but  just  a  cheap  brand 
of  domestic  piker." 

Once  more  Dick  listened.  "Well,  that's  up  to 
you,  Ruth,"  he  said,  presently.  "If  you  know  why 
you  broke  with  Roddy,  you  know  why  he  broke 
with  himself  and  the  world.  That's  where  you 
have  it  all  over  the  rest  of  us.  If  you  don't  know 
and  don't  dig  in  till  you  find  out,  you're  just  three 
kinds  of  a  quitter.  As  for  coming  out  here  with 
Rocksie,  if  you  can  find  him,  that's  up  to  you, 
too.  We're  at  the  Blue  Heron  and  we'll  probably 
stay  until  closing  or  dawn,  whichever  comes  first. 
If  you  do  decide  to  come,  don't  let  on  that  I 
tipped  you  off  and  just  remember  that  a  man  never 
needs  vitriol  to  blind  a  woman;  all  he  has  to  do  is 
to  throw  another  woman  in  her  face.  Think  it 
over  and  good-by." 

Page  left  the  telephone  with  knees  a  trifle  shaky 
and  a  puckering  frown  on  his  brow.  He  had  a 
distinct  feeling  that  he  had  been  planting  the  seeds 
of  trouble  for  himself  and  others,  but  the  sight 
of  Millie  waiting  impatiently  for  his  return  wiped 
his  well-meant  indiscretion  from  mind.  He 
nodded  to  her  and  she  got  up  and  met  him  on  the 
floor. 

"Didn't  Roddy  ask  you  to  dance?  This  is  a 
new  dance,  isn't  it?" 

"You  mean  Blackie,"  stated  Millie,  uncom 
promisingly.  "Sure.  He  ast  me,  but  I  said  you 
told  me  to  wait  for  you." 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  said  Dick.  "Do  you  al 
ways  do  as  you're  told?" 


162  RACKHOUSE 

"It  depends  who  does  the  telling,"  replied  Mil 
lie,  frankly.  "If  it's  Blackie,  I  do  what  he  says, 
and  no  bunk;  if  it's  you  I'll  do  it  if  I  feel  like  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Dick.  "So  you  felt  you'd  like  to 
dance  with  me — enough  to  wait." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Millie,  and  added,  vaguely, 
"Blackie  doesn't  really  care  about  dancing  with 
me.  He's  nuts  on  Glad." 

From  that  moment  she  refused  to  speak.  Her 
face  assumed  a  masklike  expression,  her  eyes  half 
closed  as  though  to  a  happy,  waking  dream,  and  her 
body  seemed  to  melt  flowingly  into  the  rhythm  of 
the  music.  Presently  Dick  aroused  himself  to  the 
fact  that  the  girl  might  fall  far  short  of  the  high 
est  standards  in  looks  and  dress,  but  as  a  dancing 
partner  she  represented  the  apex  of  art  for  art's 
sake.  He  felt  that  she  was  playing  a  game — a 
game  that  he,  too,  could  try.  He  dared  not  close 
his  eyes  on  the  crowded  floor,  but  he  looked  away 
from  Millie,  dreamed  that  a  vision  of  beauty 
dallied  in  his  arms,  and  before  he  knew  it,  was 
holding  her  a  little  tighter  than  the  laws  of  respi 
ration  allow.  When  the  music  stopped,  her  heart 
was  beating  fast,  so  fast  that  he  could  not  help 
but  notice  it.  He  glanced  into  her  mottled  face, 
awoke,  felt  a  pang  of  pity. 

"Did  you  like  that?"  he  asked.  She,  in  turn, 
came  out  of  her  trance  and  looked  at  him  as  if 
she  wondered  who  he  was. 

For  all  his  flippancy,  Dick  was  nobody's  fool. 
To  the  suspicion  that  Millie  was  in  love  with 
Roddy  he  was  now  prepared  to  add  a  theory  which 


RACKHOUSE  163 

did  credit  to  his  powers  of  intuition.  She  frankly 
knew  herself  to  be  without  physical  appeal,  but 
there  was  a  vague  suggestion  that  by  some  strange 
twist  of  the  hungry  heart,  backed  by  a  fearless 
spirit,  she  was  carrying  on  an  occult  campaign  for 
some  sort  of  possession  of  Roddy.  Looking  at 
her,  the  very  idea  seemed  preposterous,  but  when 
one  turned  one's  eyes  away  and  merely  felt  her 
presence,  nothing  seemed  impossible  to  so  strange 
a  personality.  Was  she  feasting  on  Roddy  vicari 
ously  through  Gladys  Gaylord's  inane  pulchritude, 
or  did  her  scheme  go  deeper,  down  to  the  basic 
axiom  that,  once  a  man  is  dragged  low  enough, 
anyone  can  have  what's  left  of  him?  Did  she 
love  him  as  little  and  as  much  as  that? 

It  was  an  interesting  speculation,  but  Dick 
finally  turned  away  from  it  to  study  the  girls  at 
other  tables.  All  who  were  offered  the  chance 
seemed  to  drink  excessively,  not  so  much  from 
appetite  as  from  fundamental  impulses.  These 
impulses  were  as  varied  as  woman  herself,  and 
ranged  from  the  instinct  for  thrift,  which  thinks 
of  anything  imbibed  or  eaten  as  "saved,"  all  the 
way  back  to  the  world-old  feminine  penchant  for 
forbidden  fruit.  "You  ain't  going  to  waste  it,  are 
you?"  and  the  countersign,  "Not  on  your  life," 
have  become  the  shibboleth  of  a  cult.  None  of 
the  converts  to  the  new  morality  had  the  air 
of  doing  what  she  ought  not  to  do,  but  rather  of 
being  in  the  mode,  of  following  the  leader,  and 
even  of  being  eager  to  take  the  next  step  down 
the  ladder  of  license,  if  only  she  could  be  sure  of 


i64  RACKHOUSE 

a  follower.  The  resulting  bacchanale  had  a  foil 
which  did  not  escape  him. 

"Roddy,"  he  said,  "do  you  get  the  water-and- 
oil  effect — the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  of  the  public 
dining  hall?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  re 
plied  Norris. 

"Look  around,  pick  out  all  the  revelers,  and 
then  look  at  the  faces  that  haven't  had  a  drop. 
They're  funny.  They're  not  shocked,  only  toler 
ant  and  occasionally  sore  at  being  left  out.  It's  oil 
and  water  trying  to  mix;  the  colds  and  the  warm. 
If  you  ask  me,  I'm  for  joining  the  warms.  How 
about  you,  Gladys?  Are  you  a  cold  or  a  warm?" 

"It  depends  how  they  hold  me,"  answered  Miss 
Gaylord,  soberly. 

Both  Norris  and  Page  roared  with  laughter, 
and  immediately  the  two  girls,  overtrained  in  the 
art  of  pleasing,  joined  heartily  in  the  merriment. 
They  did  not  know  why  they  laughed,  but  they 
were  out  to  laugh,  and  if  they  could  do  it  and 
please  their  men  at  the  same  time,  so  much  the 
better.  They  took  the  liquor  which  was  offered 
them  in  the  same  spirit,  and  by  the  time  black 
coffee  and  cigarettes  were  in  order  the  whole  party 
was  in  hilarious  mood.  All  about  them  was  an 
air  of  expectancy.  At  the  tables  where  "some 
thing  with  a  kick"  had  been  served,  there  was  a 
growing  inclination  to  make  things  happen;  at  ail 
others,  the  occupants  wore  the  expression  of  im 
patient  spectators  who  had  paid  high  prices  for 
ringside  seats. 


RACKHOUSE  165 

The  blare  of  the  orchestra,  off  duty  for  its 
supper,  had  been  replaced  by  a  swelling  crescendo 
of  voices.  Nobody  could  dance,  so  everybody 
was  talking,  saying  aloud  the  outrageous  things 
that  to  music  they  could  have  expressed  even  more 
forcibly  in  silence  and  supple  contortions.  The 
bars  were  down,  and  Nemesis  arrived  in  the  form 
of  a  too-curious  waiter.  He  had  heard  Dick's 
brazen  assurance  that  the  monkey  was  a  toy.  The 
toy's  tail  was  lying  flat  and  disconsolate  on  the 
floor,  protruding  eight  inches  into  view.  With  a 
bland  expression  of  innocence,  the  waiter  walked 
on  the  tail.  In  a  perfect  fury  of  exertion  the 
monkey  clawed  his  way  up  the  cloth  to  perch  on 
the  corner  of  the  table  and  loosed  such  a  con 
centrated  torrent  of  tropical  forest  profanity 
across  the  room  that  instantly  every  other  voice 
was  stilled  in  gasping  envy  and  admiration. 

"Who-ee !"  yelled  some  one,  suddenly. 

Pierre  came  on  the  run,  dodging  between  the 
tables.  "Tell  the  orchestra  to  play,"  he  cast  over 
his  shoulder  at  a  stunned  and  open-mouthed 
captain. 

"They  eat,"  stated  the  captain,  and  froze  again. 

Pierre  forgot  his  guild's  golden  rule  of  servility 
and  committed  the  unpardonable.  "Mr.  Page!" 
he  called,  loudly,  in  protest. 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet  as  though  he  had  been 
called  upon  for  a  speech.  "Present!"  he  an 
swered,  in  a  clear  tone  that  brought  down  the 
house.  During  the  uproar  he  had  a  chance  to  say 
for  Pierre's  ear  alone,  "Back  off,  you  fatted  calf, 


i66  RACKHOUSE 

and  leave  this  to  me."  To  Roddy  he  whispered, 
"Untie  him !"  Then  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence 
and  got  it  from  all  but  the  steadily  chattering 
monkey. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  with  the  as 
surance  of  the  liquor  within  him,  "you  can  scarcely 
be  blamed  for  not  believing  that  this  wonderful 
toy  is  real.  It  is  called  the  'Monkey-with-me,'  is 
made  of  taffy,  grows  its  own  hair,  chatters  and 
looks  like  an  ape.  Upon  being  exposed  to  the 
night  air  it  becomes  deflated.  If  you  will  kindly 
remain  seated  and  wait  till  I  come  back,  I  will 
let  you  see  me  fold  it  up  and  slip  it  in  my  breast 
pocket." 

Throughout  the  speech  Norris's  eyes  had  been 
fixed  on  the  face  of  Ruth  Ardsley,  peering  at  him 
steadily  across  a  sea  of  tilted  and  shaking 
shoulders.  With  his  eyes  he  was  looking  at  her, 
devouring  her;  but  his  mind  was  elsewhere.  It 
dismissed  her  presence  with  a  mental  shrug,  as 
one  always  dismisses  the  totally  incredible.  It 
was  busy  with  other  things,  with  thoughts  of  con 
sequences.  It  seemed  to  him  that  nowadays  his 
brain  never  worked  except  to  take  a  look  at  the 
past  and  then  rush  into  the  future  on  the  trail  of 
consequences.  He  began  to  see  ahead,  to  divine 
with  an  inexorable  clarity  what  would  come  of 
this  night's  madcap  prank.  His  face  hardened 
and  set.  As  Dick  stooped  to  snatch  up  the 
monkey,  he  leaned  forward  and  whispered :  "You 
have  bought  it  this  time.  Do  you  hear?  You 
have  certainly  bought  it." 


RACKHOUSE  167 

Page  picked  up  the  monkey  and  started  calmly 
for  the  door.  While  he  was  yet  in  the  midst  of 
the  ticklish  crossing  isolated  shouts  began  to  come 
from  all  sides. 

"Somebody  monkey  with  the  Monkey-with-me 
with  a  lighted  match!"  yelled  a  stentorian  wit, 
and  under  cover  of  the  stir  and  amusement  with 
which  the  sally  was  rewarded  Dick  made  good  his 
escape. 

Norris  signaled  quietly  for  the  reckoning.  At 
his  nod  Millie  arose  and  slipped  away,  and  pres 
ently  Gladys  followed.  Pierre  drew  near. 

"I  salute — I  take  off  my  hat  to  Mr.  Page,"  he 
murmured,  contritely.  "If  not  for  him,  these  people 
would  be  smashing  dishes  and  turning  over  tables 
just  of  excitement.  As  it  is,  they  talk  till  morn 
ing  like  you  hear  them  now  whether  it  is  a  monkey 
or  whether  it  is  not  a  monkey.  Mr.  Barnum — 
You  remember  Mr.  Barnum?  He  say " 

"Shut  up  and  get  out,"  growled  Roddy,  furi 
ously.  "The  nerve  of  you,  trying  to  tell  an  Ameri 
can  that  old  wheeze !  Get  me  my  check  or  I'll 
turn  a  table  or  two  over,  myself." 

He  became  aware  of  a  movement  of  chairs,  a 
stir,  a  settling  down  of  somebody  close  to  him. 
He  turned.  Rockman  and  Ruth  Ardsley  had 
quietly  seated  themselves  at  his  table.  For  a 
sickening  instant  he  longed  for  the  protection  of 
his  discarded  black  mask.  He  felt  as  naked  and 
unprotected  as  a  snail  caught  out  of  its  shell. 
What  did  Ruth  think  of  him?  What  could  she 
be  thinking?  Why  didn't  he  reach  out  and  seize 


i68  RACKHOUSE 

the  hand  which  she  had  cast  forward  appealingly 
so  that  it  lay,  palm  up,  on  the  cloth  before  him? 

Of  all  the  members  of  the  human  body,  the 
hand  alone  is  never  flat  when  in  repose,  and  never 
more  expressive  than  when  left  to  its  own  devices. 
Norris  stared  wide  eyed  at  the  cupped  palm,  the 
puckered  lines,  and  the  tapering,  curved  fingers 
of  Ruth's  hand.  It  was  a  good  hand,  how  incred 
ibly  smooth  and  surprisingly  firm  to  the  touch  he 
himself  best  knew.  It  had  befriended  and  admon 
ished  him  through  all  the  days  of  his  easy-going 
life.  For  years  he  had  thought  of  it  as  of  a  secret 
possession.  If  he  could  be  alone  with  it,  if  for 
an  hour  of  communion  it  could  be  severed  from 
Ruth,  how  easy  to  talk  to  it ! 

The  absurdity  of  the  fantasy  brought  him  to 
his  senses.  Why  couldn't  he  talk  to  Ruth  herself? 
Once  again  his  brain  traveled  back  over  the  fev 
ered  course  his  life  had  run  during  the  few  weeks 
which  had  elapsed  since  Roddy  Norris  had  made 
his  great  gesture,  denied  the  thing  he  loved  best, 
turned  his  back  on  the  world  and  himself,  plunged 
into  the  pit  of  penury,  and,  by  a  fluke,  emerged  to 
ride  headlong  on  a  swelling  tide — a  flood  of  afflu 
ence.  For  an  instant  only  he  felt  a  surge  of  ad 
miration  for  the  boy  who  had  given  up  Ruth 
Ardsley;  then  the  man  he  was  to-day  shuddered 
as  a  ship  shudders,  holding  to  her  course  through 
a  high  sea.  If  there  had  been  any  decency  in  the 
stand  he  had  taken,  there  was  every  reason  but 
one  why  he  should  hold  to  it  now.  He  had  money, 
but  for  money  he  had  traded  all  that  could  DOS- 


RACKHOUSE  169 

sibly  have  made  him  worth  while  to  Ruth.  He 
shook  his  shoulders.  Slowly  he  began  to  shrink 
into  himself  as  the  snail  might  have  done  into 
its  shell.  His  face  and  his  eyes  hardened,  his  lips 
drew  into  a  straight  line.  He  was  safe  once  more 
— masked. 

Rockman,  watching  him,  almost  spoke  aloud. 
"How  swiftly  the  mind  travels!"  he  thought  to 
himself.  "What  distances!  But  in  the  long  run, 
the  body  follows." 

His  studious  eyes  shifted  constantly  from 
Roddy's  to  Ruth's  face.  The  girl's  changing  ex 
pression  was  like  a  sensitive  barometer.  It  rose 
to  Roddy's  hovering,  imaginative  flight,  with  a 
sort  of  palpitating  expectation;  for  an  instant  it 
hung  poised  upon  the  pinnacle  of  hope,  and  then 
fell  heavily,  lower  and  lower,  to  the  dead  level  of 
the  present  moment,  of  the  garish  surroundings, 
of  the  ribald  echoes,  and  of  the  eternal  secretive- 
ness  of  the  individual  mind  against  a  background 
of  debased  reality. 

"Roddy,"  she  murmured,  without  looking  at 
him  and  as  though  she  knew  she  hurled  her  winged 
voice  against  a  wall,  "Please,  Roddy.  Please 
come  back."  Those  were  the  words  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  say  as  soon  as  their  their  paths 
crossed.  She  recited  them  like  a  lesson,  and  then 
she  added,  still  without  hope,  "Rocksie  and  me — 
you've — you've  left  us  out.  But  we're  here,  just 
the  same  old  friends  we've  always  been.  Truly, 
we  are.  We  don't  know  what's  happened  or  what 
we've  done.  We " 


RACKHOUSE 

She  paused  and  raised  her  eyes  valiantly  to  his 
set  face.  They  were  of  an  Irish  blue,  deep  and 
changing  as  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  They  seemed 
to  call  to  him  with  an  intensity  which  her  voice 
dared  not  use,  for  very  shame.  "They  think — 
Rocksie  and  Dick,  too,"  she  continued,  in  a  low, 
faintly  resonant  tone,  "that  I  have  done  some 
thing,  that — that  I  ought  to  know  what  it  is. 
But  I  don't,  Roddy.  I — I  don't  know." 

"None  of  you  has  done  anything,"  declared 
Norris,  shortly,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
all  his  new  power  for  ruthless  acquisition  welled 
up  within  him.  Blackie,  momentarily  in  eclipse, 
came  into  his  own,  and  Blackie's  thoughts  traveled 
their  own  road.  For  lack  of  money,  this  lovely 
girl  had  been  surrendered.  Blackie  could  stare 
impersonally  at  the  accomplishment  of  that  feat. 
It  had  been  a  wonderful  thing  to  do.  Never  had 
the  Roddy  Norris  of  other  days  felt  quite  so  big, 
quite  so  enlarged  beyond  the  confines  of  human 
limitation,  as  in  that  brief  moment  when,  for  him, 
the  half  gods  gone,  the  gods  had  arrived.  But 
that  breath  of  divinity  had  had  its  day  and  passed. 
Roddy  himself  had  expelled  it  and  let  it  go.  If 
ever  there  had  been  a  path  back,  he  had  raised  the 
bars  against  it,  and  now  there  was  no  way  to  pull 
them  down.  As  recompense  there  was  money, 
plenty  of  money,  and  it  had  been  for  lack  of 
money—  His  narrowed  eyes  fastened  hungrily  on 
Ruth's  upturned  palm;  his  hand  stole  slowly  to 
ward  hers. 

There  are  some  women  who  are  born  to  a  rev- 


RACKHOUSE  171 

erence  for  their  own  persons,  who  shrink  from 
carnal  intimacies  as  instinctively  as  others  yield  to 
the  elemental  desires  of  ungoverned  bodies.  Of 
all  their  sex,  they  alone  depend  upon  none  of  the 
props  to  conventional  virtue  such  as  the  buttresses 
of  public  opinion  or  of  inherited  rules  of  deport 
ment.  Ruth  Ardsley  was  possessed  of  this 
virginal  quality.  She  could  not  give  in  cold  blood. 
Only  in  some  moment  of  spiritual  exaltation  would 
she  ever  attain  to  the  total  and  instant  surrender 
which  counts  all  of  self  as  nothing. 

To-night,  in  the  grip  of  an  aching  depression, 
she  knew  herself  for  one  man's  woman,  and  that, 
if  she  could  not  love  Roderic  Norris,  no  other 
would  ever  possess  her.  Nevertheless,  as  she 
watched  his  hand  stealing  toward  hers  her  cheeks 
whitened  with  the  pallor  of  genuine  fear  and 
repulsion,  her  fingers  curled  up  into  a  tight  little 
fist,  and  she  arose  with  a  swaying  motion  to  her 
feet.  Drawing  her  cape  around  her  shoulders  as 
if  she  were  suddenly  shivering  cold,  she  cast  a 
single,  eloquent  look  toward  Rockman  and  turned 
to  leave  the  room. 

Rockman  nodded  quickly,  as  though  she  had 
spoken  aloud,  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  leaned 
forward,  his  knuckles  pressing  hard  on  the  table. 
"Roddy,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what's  come  over 
you,  either;  but  whatever  it  is,  it  makes  me  want 
to  spit  in  your  face." 

Norris  scarcely  felt  the  shock  of  the  words ;  he 
had  been  hit  that  day  too  often  in  the  same  spot. 
He  only  knew  that  he  was  at  bay,  that  his  career 


172  RACKHOUSE 

along  the  broad  road  to  fortune  had  suf 
fered  a  sequence  of  jolting  checks  which  showed 
him  nothing  if  not  that  he  had  missed  the  easy 
highway  and  must  make  an  effort  to  find  it  again. 
After  Rockman's  departure  he  sat  on  at  the  table, 
with  slouched  shoulders  and  vacant  eyes.  With 
out  wholly  realizing  it,  he  was  hanging  on  the 
verge  of  a  futile  pit  of  remorse.  Feeling  himself 
slipping,  he  fumbled  around  until  he  found  one  of 
two  additional  half  pints  of  whisky  which  Dick 
had  ordered  just  before  the  culminating  episode 
with  the  monkey.  He  picked  up  the  bottle,  thickly 
wrapped  in  a  napkin,  drew  the  cork,  and  poured 
himself  a  stiff  drink. 

Presently  Dick  reappeared  in  the  entrance  to 
the  room  and  tried  in  vain  to  attract  Norris's  at 
tention  from  a  distance.  He  glanced  around. 
Everyone  seemed  already  to  have  forgotten  his 
recent  escapade.  Taking  advantage  of  a  moment 
when  the  floor  was  crowded  with  dancers  and  the 
tables  consequently  all  but  deserted,  he  hurried 
along  the  dais  to  their  table. 

"Roddy,"  he  said,  "the  girls  have  been  sitting 
in  the  car  for  half  an  hour." 

"Let  them  sit,"  replied  Norris,  indifferently, 
"and  you  sit,  too.  I've  got  something  I  want  to 
ask  you." 

"Fire  away,"  said  Dick,  seating  himself.  "But 
give  me  a  drink  first — the  twin  brother  to  yours." 

They  drank,  and  drank  once  again,  before 
Norris  brought  himself  to  the  point  of  asking  his 
question.  "Did  you  plant  anything  on  me  to- 


RACKHOUSE  173 

night,"  he  demanded,  his  jaw  protruding  bellig 
erently. 

"No,"  lied  Dick,  promptly,  and  waited. 

"You  didn't  plant  Rocksie  and —  What  I  mean 
is,  didn't  you  plant  Rocksie  on  me  t'night?" 

"No,  I  didn't.     Didn't  I  tell  you  I  didn't?" 

"I  thought  you  did;  but  you  say  you  didn't 
tell  me  you  didn't.  I  can't  understand  it.  You 
say " 

"I  don't  say  anything  of  the  kind,"  interrupted 
Dick,  hotly.  "What  I  said  was  didn't  you  ask 
me  if  I  did  and  I  said  I  didn't.  What  I  said — 
Listen,  /said " 

There  followed  one  of  those  long,  two-sided, 
owl-solemn  discussions  that  are  so  uproariously 
funny  to  the  bystander,  but  which  to  the  inebriated 
are  arguments  packed  with  logic,  stated,  doubled 
and  redoubled,  with  patience,  force,  and  modera 
tion  in  the  face  of  a  hopelessly  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind,  yet  deeply  beloved  adversary. 

In  due  course  Roddy  and  Dick  were  faintly 
conscious  of  a  swiftly  emptying  room,  of  the  an 
nouncement  of  closing  time,  of  being  gently  led 
to  the  outside,  of  finding  Millie,  Gladys,  and  the 
monkey  sound  asleep  in  the  roadster,  of  starting 
for  home,  and  of  dropping  the  two  girls  at  some 
subway  station  on  the  way.  From  that  point  on 
all  was  a  blank. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  Norris's 
amazement  upon  waking  just  before  noon  of  the 
next  day  in  his  own  bed  at  the  Royal.  Such  is  the 
power  of  ancient  associations  that  he  was  seized 


i?4  RACKHOUSE 

by  the  conviction  that  only  a  single  night  separated 
him  from  the  happy  evening  with  his  friends  which 
had  ended  disastrously  in  the  break  with  Ruth  and 
the  dismissal  of  Bronk.  All  of  the  two  ghastly 
months  which  had  intervened  did  not  fade  away, 
but  the  possibility  existed  that  they  might  fall  be 
tween  the  parentheses  of  night  and  morning. 
What  a  dream!  What  a  nightmare!  He  had 
read  somewhere  that  dreams  were  instantaneous, 
that  the  mind,  released  from  hindering  conscious 
ness,  was  simultaneously  freed  from  the  measur 
ing  rule  of  time.  Even  so,  it  seemed  incredible 
that  one  could  spin  into  a  single  night's  sleep  so 
long  and  consequential  a  tale  and,  waking,  remem 
ber  every  ghastly  item!  "Was  it  a  dream? 
Could  it  possibly  have  been  a  dream?"  he  almost 
prayed. 

People  said,  too,  that  every  dream  had  its 
source  in  some  recent  happening  or  spoken  word. 
He  went  over  the  fatal  evening,  so  clear  in  his 
recollection  that  doubt  almost  left  him,  and  re 
membered  everything  that  had  transpired.  Above 
all,  his  discussion  with  Dick  Page  stood  out,  and 
his  own  contention  that  a  man's  life — his  whole 
life,  mind  you — might  pivot  on  a  fluke.  That  was 
it!  There  was  the  source  of  suggestion  !  On  that 
frail  hook  he  must  have  hung  a  whole  lifetime  of 
nightmare !  He  laughed  aloud,  a  merry,  care-free 
laugh  which  no  one  had  heard  for  two  months. 
The  sound  of  it  left  him  cold,  trembling,  over 
whelmed,  it  rang  so  strangely  in  his  unaccustomed 
ears. 


Chapter  IX 

ALMOST    immediately    Bronk    entered    the 
room  and  drew  the  curtains.    "Good  morn 
ing,  sir." 

"Bronk,  I  thought  I'd  fired  you." 

"You  did,  sir;  but  I've  stayed  on." 

A  pitiful  gleam  of  dying  hope  flickered  in 
Norris's  bloodshot  eyes.  "Was  I  out  last  night?" 
he  asked,  hesitatingly. 

"You  were,  sir,"  replied  Bronk.  "You've  been 
out  every  night  of  two  months,  sir." 

Norris  sank  back  on  the  pillows  and  closed  his 
eyes.  So  it  was  true — all  the  dreaming  and  all  the 
nightmare.  Ruth  was  gone,  Rockman  alienated, 
Dick  half  rewon  to  association  on  a  lower  plane, 
with  Cullom  and  Bronk,  unknown  to  themselves, 
on  the  waiting  list !  In  recompense,  there  was  the 
money.  If  the  rest  was  reality,  the  money,  too, 
was  real.  So  were  Jimmie,  Millie,  Gladys,  the 
monkey,  and  Rackhouse  Incorporated — all  real 
and  waiting  for  him  to  wake  up — truly  wake 
up — to  come  to  his  senses  and  get  to  work.  He 
threw  off  the  covers  and  sprang  from  the  bed. 
Bronk  was  holding  the  trousers  and  coat  of  the 
much-worn  tweed  suit  between  disdainful  fingers 
and  thumbs. 

12  175 


176  RACKHOUSE 

"There's  money  in  those  clothes,"  said  Norris, 
in  a  hard,  practical  voice.  "Take  it  out  and 
count  it." 

Bronk  could  not  resist  a  curious,  puzzled  glance 
at  his  master  as  he  obeyed.  He  drew  a  great  wad 
of  notes  from  the  trousers  pocket,  counted  it  out 
painstakingly,  and  said,  "Eight  hundred  and  forty 
dollars,  sir." 

"Subtract  your  pay  for  two  months,"  ordered 
Norris,  "and  leave  the  rest  on  the  dresser;  then 
run  my  bath." 

"Mr.  Page  is  in  the  bath,  sir." 

"Is  he?  By  the  way,  how  did  we  get  here?  Tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"The  night  watchman  spied  you  and  Mr.  Page 
with  a  monkey  in  his  lap  asleep  in  a  car  outside. 
He  looked  me  up  and  we  brought  you  all  in,  sir." 

"Very  interesting,"  said  Norris.  "Like  old 
times.  Anything  else?" 

"No,  sir.  Only  Shandy  Cullom.  He's  been 
waiting  in  the  living  room  since  nine  o'clock.  He 
says  you  have  a  job  for  him,  sir — a  job  at  a  hun 
dred  a  week!  He  seems  to  be  sober." 

"So  I  have,"  said  Norris,  yawning  and  stretch 
ing,  "and  one  for  you  at  sixty  if  you'll  take  it." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Bronk,  without  hesitation, 
"but  I  can't  consider  an  increase  that  will  leave 
me  inferior  to  Shandy  Cullom.  I  shall  remain  at 
my  old  pay." 

"Look  here,  you  old  codfish,  if  you'll  do  what 
Shandy  is  going  to  do  for  his  money — drive  a 
truck,  pack  a  gun,  and  stand  ready  to  shoot 


RACKHOUSE  177 

and  be  shot  at,  every  day  and  night  you're  on 
the  job — you'll  get  the  same  ante.  Do  you 
want  it?" 

Bronk's  eyes  protruded  in  exact  ratio  to  the 
crescendo  of  the  qualifications  required  of  Shandy. 
"No,  sir.  And  may  I  ask  what  would  I  have  to 
do  to  get  the  sixty?" 

"Keep  my  partner  company,  act  as  steward  in 
our  country  establishment,  keep  tabs  on  the  help 
and  provisions,  make  yourself  generally  damned 
useful,  and  smoke  Corona  cigars." 

Bronk  flushed  at  mention  of  the  cigars.  "I'll 
take  the  sixty,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  and  added:  "I 
think  I  hear  Mr.  Page  leaving  the  bath,  sir.  He's 
in  the  papers  this  morning,  sir." 

Norris  turned  quickly.  "In  the  papers?  Al 
ready!  What  do  you  mean,  in  the  papers?" 

"There's  a  story  in  the  first  evening  editions, 
sir.  All  about  Mr.  Page  and  the  monkey." 

"Get  me  the  paper,"  ordered  Norris. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  waited. 
What  could  the  story  say?  If  it  was  just  a  restau 
rant  incident  write-up,  it  would  be  tucked  into  the 
foot  of  any  column  anywhere,  but  if  he  had  been 
right  when,  seized  by  sudden  premonition,  he  had 
said  to  Dick,  "You  have  bought  it!"  then  the 
thing  would  flare  at  him  from  the  front  page  and 
he  could  almost  guess  the  heading  it  would 
carry. 

Bronk  entered,  handed  him  the  paper,  and  with 
drew.  Norris  needed  to  make  no  search.  There 
it  was,  a  two-column  spread  on  the  first  page : 


178  RACKHOUSE 

MASKS  OFF  AT  MIDNIGHT 

MYSTERY  MAN  OF  BLACK-MASK  FAME  REVEALED 

COLLAPSIBLE  MONKEY  LETS  CAT  OUT  OF  BAG  AT  ROAD 

HOUSE  NEAR-RIOT 
LIEUT.  RICHARD  PAGE  HAS  BOTH  ARMS 

Then  came  the  story,  more  or  less  accurate  and 
told  in  a  vein  of  good-natured  raillery,  which 
linked  up  the  restaurant  episode  with  the  Black 
Mask's  recent  highly  successful  hoax  on  the  public. 

Norris  glanced  hurriedly  through  paragraph 
after  paragraph  of  harmless  badinage  until  his 
eyes  came  to  the  final  sentence :  "At  the  time  of 
his  disappearance,  experts  estimated  that  the 
Black  Mask  with  his  picturesque  outfit  had  col 
lected  upward  of  $6,000  of  the  people's  money." 
He  read  it  over  several  times.  So  strong  was 
the  impression  of  hearty  fun  imparted  by  the 
article  as  a  whole,  it  seemed  that  only  by  a  stretch 
of  the  imagination  could  its  apparently  casual  con 
clusion  be  construed  as  a  mild  flick  of  the  lash 
of  censure.  He  took  the  paper  to  Page  and  made 
him  read  it.  Dick's  perusal  was  broken  by  fre 
quent  chuckles  and  occasional  bursts  of  laughter. 
When  he  came  to  the  mention  of  the  $6,000  his 
brow  clouded,  but  only  for  an  instant. 

"Those  fellows  are  nutty,"  he  remarked.  "Al 
ways  painting  the  lily.  Six  thousand?  They're 
crazy! 

An  hour  later  Norris  was  finishing  his  break 
fast  and  making  his  offer  to  Cullom.  "Shandy," 
he  said,  "my  partner  will  soon  be  known  from 
New  York  to  San  Francisco  as  the  king  of  boot- 


RACKHOUSE  179 

leggers.  We  own  a  lot  of  hooch  and  we're  already 
running  five  high-powered  trucks.  Everything  is 
legal  up  to  the  point  of  delivery.  What  I  mean  by 
that  is  that  we  haven't  any  fight  on  with  the  bulls. 
But  just  the  same,  our  drivers  need  all  the  nerve 
there  is,  pack  regulation  government  automatic 
forty-fives,  and  carry  a  crew  of  gunmen.  That's 
because " 

"Say,"  interrupted  Cullom,  cynically,  "why 
don't  you  tell  me  my  name  and  where  I  live?  I 
helped  hold  up  one  of  your  trucks  a  week  ago. 
I'm  just  back  from  three  nights  in  jail." 

"You  did,  did  you?"  said  Norris,  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  himself  heard  above  Dick's  shout  of 
laughter.  "Well,  I  want  to  shake  your  hand  on 
that  job.  It  was  a  wonder." 

"Nothing  with  a  cooler  tied  to  its  tail  end 
looks  wonderful  to  me,"  said  Shandy,  gloomily. 

"How  does  one  of  our  trucks  and  a  hundred  a 
week  strike  you?" 

"Just  below  the  belt,  in  the  pit  of  my  empty 
stomach,"  replied  Cullom,  promptly.  "When  do 
we  start?" 

"Now,"  said  Norris. 

"How  about  packing  the  bags,  sir?"  asked 
Bronk. 

"You'll  know  better  when  we  get  out  to  Rack- 
house,"  answered  Norris.  "We  run  a  slop  chest 
and  you'll  each  get  what's  fitting  in  every  sense 
of  the  word.  And  by  the  way,  Bronk,  there'll  be 
somebody  there  to  kick  you  where  it  hurts  every 
time  you  say  'sir.'  " 


i8o  RACKHOUSE 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bronk,  absently.  He  was  not 
particularly  happy.  He  had  made  a  practice  of 
selling  himself  for  money  all  his  life,  whenever 
an  occasion  offered  which  did  not  interfere  with 
his  standards  of  service,  and  he  had  no  doubt  he 
was  doing  it  again  for  his  new  weekly  wage.  That 
did  not  bother  him.  But  for  an  hour,  ever  since 
he  had  hurried  into  his  master's  room  in  answer 
to  a  familiar,  care-free  laugh,  he  had  been  troubled 
by  a  vague  uneasiness.  The  laugh  had  proved  a 
sort  of  broken  promise.  He  had  an  unerring  nose 
for  a  gentleman.  It  was  his  stock  in  trade.  All 
his  reasoning  powers,  backed  by  years  of  associa 
tion,  told  him  that  Norris  always  had  been  and 
consequently  always  would  be  a  gentleman.  This 
morning  his  nose  contradicted  the  conclusion  flatly. 
It  was  very  confusing. 

The  attitude  not  only  of  Bronk,  but  of  Page 
and  Cullom,  toward  Norris  on  the  day  of  their 
initiation  as  employees  of  Rackhouse  Incorpo 
rated  and  for  many  a  week  thereafter,  was  diffi 
cult  of  analysis  even  to  Jimmie's  master-key  mind. 
It  did  not  take  the  old  man  long  to  learn,  and  that 
without  questions,  the  exact  relationship  which 
had  existed  between  each  of  the  new  recruits  and 
the  Roderic  Norris  who  had  been  the  forerunner 
of  the  Black  Mask.  He  also  puzzled  out  for  him 
self  that  whenever  the  original  relationship  was 
to  the  fore,  manservant,  clubmate  and  ex-sergeant, 
all  looked  upon  and  treated  Norris  with  impunity 
as  carrying  some  mysterious  taint,  some  half-dis 
covered  yellow  streak,  which,  by  rights,  had  no 


RACKHOUSE  181 

place  in  him.  When  it  came  to  the  present-day's 
work,  however,  the  three  sang  another  tune. 

"Blackie  is  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie  to  himself 
with  somewhat  the  pride  of  creation,  "and  Blackie 
is  boss!" 

The  most  casual  observer  could  see  that  in  all 
things  pertaining  to  the  management  and  welfare 
of  Rackhouse,  Norris  was  leader  by  the  divine 
right  of  his  right  fist,  and  undisputed  master  of 
everyone,  from  the  noncombative  Bronk  to  the 
brothers,  Pogie  and  Whale  Villar,  the  toughest 
gangsters  ever  graduated  from  the  East  Side's 
post-graduate  course  for  gunmen.  His  orders 
came  with  the  snap  of  a  slave  driver's  whip  and 
were  backed  by  the  peculiar  gleam  of  the  eye 
which  is  invariably  obeyed — the  gleam  which 
prays  eagerly,  almost  hungrily  for  rebellion  and 
a  fight. 

No  one  thought  of  saying  Captain  Norris, 
though  most  of  them  knew  the  name  and  rank; 
even  "Roddy"  came  more  and  more  seldom  to 
Dick's  lips.  As  Jimmie  had  said  to  himself, 
Blackie  was  Blackie,  and  Blackie  was  boss.  He 
was  more  than  that.  He  was  an  institution,  and 
was  rapidly  becoming  a  landmark  in  an  industry 
whose  phenomenal  rise  was  destined  to  make  the 
miracle  of  moving  pictures  as  a  fortune  mill  look 
slow  and  conservative  by  comparison.  Blackie's 
brain,  Blackie's  fist,  and  Blackie's  gunwork  were 
current  gossip  on  every  turnpike  in  three  of  the 
largest  states  in  the  Union,  while  the  general 
public  was  still  in  such  total  ignorance  that  it 


182  RACKHOUSE 

could  read  of  the  seizure  at  Atlantic  City,  by  the 
police,  of  a  fully  armored  monster  truck  fitted 
with  machine  guns  and  merely  wonder  mildly 
what  it  was  all  about. 

Page  was  not  sent  out  on  the  road  in  the  casual 
manner  which  he  had  expected.  He  was  given 
little  jobs  of  inspection  such  as  commonly  fall  to 
the  lot  of  a  supercargo  on  a  big  ship,  and  forced 
to  loaf  around  Rackhouse  under  frequent  and  loud 
protests  which  gradually  died  away  into  stunned 
absorption  as  his  quick  brain  began  to  take  in  the 
full  magnitude  of  the  enterprise  which  was  devel 
oping  by  leaps  and  bounds  under  his  constantly 
astonished  eyes. 

Jimmie  was  no  longer  a  curiosity,  a  strange, 
philosophic  freak  cast  up  from  the  bowels  of 
chance.  He  was  Old  Man  Rackhouse,  king  of 
bootleggers,  a  crouching  gray  spider  in  the  center 
of  a  vast  gray  web.  He  grew  so  silent,  so  beady 
eyed,  and  so  immobile  that  the  full  extent  of  his 
activities  could  only  be  guessed.  He  read  six 
morning  papers,  devoting  an  average  of  six  min 
utes  to  each.  It  was  one  of  Dick's  chores  to  see 
that  he  had  the  papers  by  seven  in  the  morning, 
which  meant  that  Dick's  rising  hour  had  been  put 
back  from  nine  to  five.  Jimmie  read  only  two 
varieties  of  news:  firstly,  anything  that  would  de 
press  temporarily  the  value  of  bonded  ware 
house  certificates  for  liquor,  and,  secondly,  stock 
quotations. 

In  his  own  and  Norris's  name  he  had  stop 
orders  out  for  the  buying  of  large  blocks  of  listed 


RACKHOUSE  183 

securities  as  soon  as  they  dropped  below  his  chosen 
dead  line,  and  whenever  a  scare,  such  as  that  pro 
duced  by  the  passage  of  the  Mullan-Gage  law  or 
the  announcement  of  a  shake-up  in  the  enforce 
ment  of  the  Volstead  Act,  drove  down  the  value 
of  bonded  liquor,  he  would  pawn  the  securities  for 
all  they  would  bear  and,  with  the  resulting  large 
sums  of  ready  cash,  plunge  to  the  limit  on  ware 
house  certificates.  His  motto,  as  far  as  genuine 
liquor  was  concerned,  was,  "Buy  all  there  is." 
Home  brews,  synthetic  gin,  and  near-rye  left  him 
cold.  The  name  of  Rackhouse  was  to  be  a  guar 
antee,  a  synonym  for  full  value,  mellowed  in  the 
wood. 

Before  Page  had  been  with  the  outfit  a  month, 
Rackhouse  Incorporated  had  its  own  leased  wires 
to  New  York,  Chicago,  Philadelphia,  and  Boston, 
bank  accounts  and  agents  in  twelve  cities,  and  a 
fleet  of  from  ten  to  sixteen  motor  lorries  which 
were  scrapped  as  fast  as  they  could  be  bettered 
either  in  power,  in  speed,  or  by  the  addition  of 
improvements  and  tricky  gadgets  evolved  by  the 
mind  of  Blackie,  constantly  on  the  qui  vive  to  keep 
just  one  jump  ahead  of  the  clever  brains  which 
made  an  increasingly  reckless  war  on  the  precious 
convoys  of  liquid  gold. 

Jimmie  accepted  no  orders  for  less  than  full 
truck-load  lots,  delivered  for  cash  at  any  one  of 
the  dozen  cities  on  his  list.  The  buyers  arranged 
for  the  safe  reception  of  the  contraband,  stored  it 
at  little  risk  to  themselves  by  foresighted  negotia 
tion  with  certain  authorities,  and  subsequently  dis- 


1 84  RACKHOUSE 

tributed  it  in  touring  cars,  by  the  case  and  at  great 
profit,  to  every  town  and  hamlet  within  their 
radius.  Wherever  Jimmie's  fleet  discharged  its 
cargoes  fortunes  were  being  made  almost  over 
night,  and  in  the  specific  instance  of  one  openly 
complacent  medium-sized  city  the  entire  level  of 
per-capita  wealth  was  raised  appreciably  in  the 
record  space  of  three  months. 

Norris's  job  was  even  more  varied  than  that 
of  his  weird  partner;  posing  as  ringmaster  in  a 
cage  of  half-tamed  lions  was  the  easiest  part  of  it. 
In  the  enforcement  of  discipline  he  was  merciless. 
On  those  rare  occasions  when  he  got  the  chance 
to  knock  a  green  newcomer  down,  it  was  his  pride 
to  kick  the  victim  twice  before  the  toppling  body 
reached  the  floor.  In  a  tough  crowd  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  be  the  toughest,  and  he  was  sup 
ported  not  only  by  the  strange  allegiance  which 
the  most  elemental  brute  develops  toward  a 
master,  but  also  by  that  sullen  gleam  in  his  eyes 
arising  from  some  smoldering  fire  gnawing  at  his 
vitals  and  which  seemed  to  endow  him  momen 
tarily  with  the  strength  of  a  maniac. 

In  addition  to  being  in  himself  the  whole  law 
of  the  camp,  he  had  arduous  night  duties  in  con 
junction  with  Jimmie,  when  the  two  would  pour 
for  hours  over  road  maps,  making  out  schedules 
and  planning  changes  in  the  routes  for  outgoing 
trucks.  The  amount  of  detailed  information  that 
Norris  brought  to  bear  on  this  task  never  ceased 
to  astonish  Page,  though  Jimmie  seemed  to  re 
ceive  it  with  calm  satisfaction.  Bits  of  bad  road 


RACKHOUSE  185 

that  were  good  and  of  good  that  were  bad;  un 
charted,  insignificant  lanes ;  curves  and  their  rela 
tion  to  possible  ambush ;  screening  clumps  of  trees 
and  their  exact  location — all  were  charted  in 
Blackie's  mind  with  an  accuracy  which  was 
breath  taking,  and  each  for  a  specific  reason  of 
benefit  or  danger.  Distance  was  his  special  hobby, 
and  distance  to  him  and  to  every  man  in  his 
command  had  grown  to  be  just  another  name  for 
fifty  paces. 

He  never  tired  of  bludgeoning  his  slogan  into 
the  turgid  minds  of  his  followers.  "Distance  1" 
he  would  cry,  pounding  the  bunkhouse  mess  table 
with  his  fist.  "Get  your  distance.  Keep  your 
distance.  Make  your  distance,  if  you  have  to 
climb  down  and  run  for  it.  Just  remember  that 
at  fifty  yards  nobody  can  get  the  drop  on  any 
one.  It's  anybody's  fight,  and  all  this  outfit 
asks  from  the  toughest  gang  on  earth  is  an 
even  break." 

It  was  he  who  drilled  into  the  practical  drivers 
a  theoretic  knowledge  of  the  rules  of  motor  im 
petus.  The  suggestion  of  one  of  them  that  better 
speed  could  be  made  if  huge  pneumatic  tires  were 
substituted  for  the  flat  variety  set  Blackie  off  on 
a  characteristic  lecture.  "Listen,  dumbbell  1"  he 
had  cried,  "If  ever  a  pirate  follows  or  leads  you 
carrying  the  tires  you  say  you'd  like,  he's  your 
meat.  What  happens  when  you  get  a  blow-out  at 
forty  miles  in  a  tire  carrying  ninety  pounds'  pres 
sure?  Which  way  does  the  truck  swerve,  toward 
the  trouble  or  way  from  it?  Always  toward  it. 


i86  RACKHOUSE 

Do  you  get  that?  Always  toward  it,  front  or 
back  wheel.  All  you  need  to  do  is  to  get  near 
enough  for  gun  practice  and  then  pick  your  wheel 
and  ditch  him. 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  he  continued.  "You 
all  know  that  your  wagon  will  always  follow  the 
engine,  and  that  nine  times  out  of  ten  you  have 
the  weight  on  your  side  in  any  mix-up.  But  what 
you  don't  seem  to  know  or  want  to  learn  is  how 
to  play  your  winning  hand.  Use  your  hubs.  Some 
day  I'm  going  to  take  out  a  gun  crew  made  up  of 
nothing  but  drivers  and  bump  the  hub  game  into 
you  so  you  won't  forget  it." 

Another  branch  of  his  untiring  energy  was  de 
voted  to  thinking  up  tricks  of  speed  and  protec 
tion  and  ruses  to  deceive  the  wily  bandit.  He  had 
dashboards  and  folding  side  leaves  of  half-inch 
steel  on  all  his  trucks  to  protect  the  man  at  the 
wheel,  and  always  left  a  pit  in  the  top  of  the  load 
as  a  bulwark  and  hiding  place  for  his  gunmen. 

As  the  business  developed,  still  another  diffi 
culty  was  put  up  to  him  for  solution.  At  certain 
of  its  terminal  cities  Rackhouse  Incorporated 
had  trusted  agents;  at  others  they  had  just  agents; 
and  at  certain  points  to  which  they  sent  sporadic 
loads  they  had  no  agents  at  all.  It  devolved  upon 
Blackie  to  arrange  for  sure  collection  of  the  cash 
due  at  the  last  two  categories,  and  the  problem 
threatened  to  turn  his  hair  gray.  In  certain  in 
stances  he  could  trust  the  honesty  and  intelligence 
of  his  drivers,  but  in  others  the  only  solution 
seemed  to  be  to  take  to  the  road  himself  in  his 


RACKHOUSE  187 

speed  car  and  arrange  schedules  so  that  he  could 
meet  two  or  more  loads  upon  their  arrival  at 
widely  separated  destinations. 

While  engaged  on  this  duty  he  gained  a  wel 
come  inspiration  which  gave  rise  to  a  system  of 
pilot  cars.  Instead  of  putting  all  his  gunmen  on 
the  truck  itself,  he  would  send  half  or  more  of 
them  out  in  a  battered  but  speedy  touring  car  with 
instructions  to  keep  within  hooting  distance  of 
the  load  to  which  they  acted  as  convoy.  This 
scheme,  as  a  sure  distance  getter  in  case  of  trouble, 
held  the  place  of  honor  among  and  above  all  other 
brain-wave  subterfuges  until  the  crew  of  one  of 
the  pilot  wagons  took  it  into  their  heads  to  turn 
bandit. 

Unfortunately  for  them  and  fortunately  for 
Norris's  record  of  generalship,  they  picked  the 
wrong  day,  the  wrong  hour,  the  wrong  place,  and, 
lastly  and  principally,  the  wrong  truck  driver. 
One  of  them  was  killed,  another  maimed  for  life, 
and  the  third  scared  out  of  ten  years'  growth  by 
being  rolled  along  and  tossed  thirty  feet  in  an 
old  touring  car  whose  driver  had  harbored  the 
mistaken  idea  that  when  he  stopped,  the  thunder 
ing  truck  behind  him  would  stop  also  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter.  His  margin  of  safety  was 
swamped  by  the  fact  that  Mike,  star  truckman 
of  Rackhouse  Incorporated,  with  Whale  Villar 
at  his  side,  knew  without  telling  not  only  what  was 
the  matter,  but  also  what  twelve  tons  traveling  at 
thirty-five  miles  an  hour  could  do  to  two  tons  of 
junk  which  was  stationary.  Blackie  made  the  hero 


i88  RACKHOUSE 

of  the  occasion  stand  up  before  the  assembled 
bunkhouse  and  tell  his  story. 

"Well,  it  was  this  way,  Blackie,"  began  Mike, 
his  hair,  freckles,  and  all  his  visible  skin  taking  on 
an  equally  brilliant  shade  of  brick  red.  "Whale 
and  me  we  seen  'em  stop;  we  figgered  that  no 
machine  running  out  of  this  joint  has  a  right  to 
stop  for  engine  trouble,  oil,  water,  or  gas,  an' 
just  as  we  was  goin'  on  to  figger  what  other  reason 
there  is  for  wagons  drawin'  up  broadside  in  the 
middle  of  a  long,  lonesome  stretch,  we  hit  'em  with 
all  we  had  a  shade  east  of  amidships,  so  they 
would  leave  the  road  and  not  keep  rolling  along 
in  front  of  us.  I  report  the  pilot  car  spoiled, 
Blackie — so  spoiled  we  didn't  even  stop  to  look 
back  at  it." 

Save  for  Dick's  gasping  laugh  of  appreciation, 
the  brief  oration  was  greeted  only  by  a  series  of 
deep-chested  grunts.  Blackie  drew  a  roll  of  crisp 
bills  from  his  pocket,  called  forward  Mike  and 
Whale,  handed  three  hundred  dollars  to  the  for 
mer  and  two  hundred  to  the  latter.  "I'd  make  it 
more,"  he  said,  in  the  dead  silence  which  accom 
panied  the  gift,  "except  that  it's  going  to  be  a 
fixed  bonus  from  now  on.  Any  truck  captain  and 
any  and  all  gunmen  that  stand  by  him  can  have 
the  same  for  the  same  any  day  of  the  year.  As  a 
special  and  additional  prize  you  two  can  take  a 
week  off  on  full  pay." 

Within  forty-eight  hours  he  regretted  heartily 
this  latter  bit  of  generosity.  Coupled  with  the 
episode  which  had  preceded  it  and  with  a  further 


RACKHOUSE  189 

misfortune  which  detained  an  entire  crew  on  a 
charge  of  manslaughter  at  a  distant  point  until 
Jimmie's  champion  "fixer"  could  bail  them  out, 
Blackie  was  left  so  short  handed  of  gunmen  that 
he  was  practically  forced  to  carry  out  his  fre 
quent  threat  to  take  out  a  crew  of  drivers  and 
show  them  a  thing  or  two.  The  moment  the  de 
cision  was  reached,  Dick  led  him  aside. 

"Blackie,"  he  said  with  peculiar  emphasis  on 
the  nickname  and  as  though  he  recognized  all  the 
implication  of  chieftainship  which  went  with  it, 
"take  me  on  this  run  or  drop  me  from  the  pay  roll. 
I  mean  it.  If  I'm  not  good  enough  to  sit  next  to 
you  and  watch  you  work,  I'm  nothing  but  a  dead 
head  living  on  a  pension,  and  I'm  through.  Which 
is  it  going  to  be?" 

For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks  Norris  met 
Page's  eyes  with  no  faltering  in  his  own.  He  was 
on  Blackie's  own  battleground.  With  his  whole 
mind  intent  on  making  good  once  more  his  title  of 
leadership,  and  that  under  the  shrewd  observation 
of  four  truckmen  each  one  of  whom  was  a  jealous 
master  of  his  trade,  Roddy  Norris  was  more  than 
a  thing  of  the  past — he  was  simply  blotted  out  of 
recollection. 

"You'll  ride  beside  me  because  I  damn  well  tell 
you  to  and  not  because  you  asked,"  he  answered, 
roughly. 

Dick  turned  away  with  such  a  happy  grin  on 
his  face  and  such  boyish  exultation  in  his  heart  as 
he  had  not  felt  since  his  first  gasping  and  success 
ful  plunge  into  deep  water  in  the  swimming  pool 


190  RACKHOUSE 

of  his  school  days.  It  did  not  need  the  tense 
atmosphere  of  the  bunkhouse,  the  garage,  and  the 
office  to  tell  him  that  older  hands  than  he  looked 
upon  the  coming  venture  as  loaded  to  the  gun 
wales  with  several  varieties  of  dramatic  possi 
bilities.  The  bandits  had  every  reason  to  think 
that  they  had  Rackhouse  Incorporated  on  the 
run.  They  knew  to  a  man  how  many  members 
of  Blackie's  outfit  were  listed  as  temporarily  or 
permanently  missing,  and  they  also  knew  that 
shortage  of  crews  spelled  cargoes  of  maximum 
value. 

It  was  Norris's  business  to  miss  no  single  pre 
caution  which  might  give  him  the  paper-thin  shade 
of  advantage  over  his  adversaries  which  he  had 
preached  time  and  again  was  all  that  a  Rackhouse 
driver  needed  to  bring  home,  not  half,  but  every 
tail  feather  from  the  bird  of  victory.  He  made  his 
preparations  accordingly,  and  for  an  entire  day 
and  most  of  a  night  every  mechanic  and  additional 
helper  who  could  get  room  enough  to  work  on 
the  chassis  of  the  monster  lorry  chosen  for  the 
expedition  was  driven  mercilessly  to  the  verge  of 
breakdown. 

Norris  picked  No.  7  for  the  occasion,  a  levia 
than  which  had  been  worked  out  just  enough  to 
make  it  supple,  but  had  been  subjected  to  no 
collision  or  extraordinary  strain  of  any  nature. 
He  thought  it  was  the  first  truck  of  its  size  and 
make  to  have  left  the  factory  with  the  governor, 
which  ordinarily  limits  the  speed  of  such  vehicles, 
removed,  the  sprockets  modified  accordingly,  and 


RACKHOUSE  191 

the  hubs  alinged  to  jut  one  inch  beyond  the  body 
of  the  van. 

He  ordered  it  jacked  high  and  stanchly  braced; 
then  he  stripped  every  item  of  its  complicated 
running  gear,  tested  its  ignition,  put  in  an  entire 
new  set  of  proven  plugs,  washed  out  the  radiator, 
drained  and  refilled  the  gas  tank,  drew  off  the  oil 
from  the  crank  case,  and  filled  it  again  to  the 
exact  level  of  highest  efficiency.  When  that  was 
done  he  took  a  monkey  wrench  and  with  his  own 
hands  tightened  every  one  of  a  hundred  nuts.  In 
the  meantime  trusted  mechanics  opened  up  the 
transmission  and  the  differential,  washed  and  lu 
bricated  without  overpacking  them,  and  made  the 
round  of  the  grease  cups. 

When  all  was  readjusted,  Norris  climbed  to  the 
driver's  seat  and  gave  the  order:  "Now.  Reach 
up  and  turn  her  over." 

Pushing  others  aside  at  the  command  of  the 
boss  and  standing  on  a  case  of  liquor,  the  chief 
mechanic  gave  the  crank  an  expert  half  turn. 
The  engine  spit  once  only  and  caught  the  spark. 
Norris  let  her  run  gently  for  a  minute  or  two, 
listening  intently  to  the  purring  throb,  then  threw 
in  his  gears  and  listened  again.  In  answer  to  the 
powerful  chain  drive,  the  rear  wheels  whirled 
faster  and  faster,  with  only  a  rhythmic  click.  He 
throttled  her  down,  released  the  transmission  and 
gradually  gave  the  freed  engine  more  and  more 
gas  until  it  leaped  to  a  deafening  roar  which 
sent  a  reverberating  challenge,  incredibly  deep 

throated  and  menacing,  out  across  miles  of  the 
13 


192  RACKHOUSE 

silent  night.  He  shut  off  the  engine  and  climbed 
down. 

"That  was  just  to  let  'em  know  we're  on  our 
way,"  he  grunted  savagely,  and  ordered  the  truck 
lowered. 

His  task  of  supervision  was  not  yet  over;  the 
loading  still  remained  to  be  done.  Even  with  all 
hands  passing  cases  from  the  stock  room,  the  job 
was  a  long  one,  as  Norris  insisted  on  having  the 
boxes  fastened  longitudinally,  with  strips  of  floor 
ing  nailed  to  their  sides  and  then  spiked  with 
wedges,  so  that  when  the  load  was  completed  it 
was  a  single,  solid,  nonshiftable  mass  of  dead 
weight — two  hundred  cases  welded  into  one.  As 
the  monster  truck  was  of  the  van  type,  three  of 
the  four  armed  drivers  who  were  to  act  as  escort 
were  to  ride  on  a  tier  of  boxes  piled  on  the  exten 
sion  tailboard  at  the  rear,  while  Bill  Blood,  the 
remaining  emergency  gunman,  and  Dick  were  to 
occupy  the  cramped  quarters  beside  the  driver. 
A  space  of  fully  two  feet  between  the  cargo  and 
the  roof  would  enable  the  forward  and  after  con 
tingents  to  keep  in  communication  by  gestures,  if 
not  by  shouts. 

After  three  hours'  rest  with  their  clothes  on, 
Blackie  and  the  envied  men  who  were  to  accom 
pany  him  took  their  respective  places  on  No.  7 
as  the  first  streak  of  the  chilly  dawn  showed  above 
the  gentle  rise  behind  Rackhouse.  Every  member 
of  the  entire  outfit  was  up  and  out  to  see  them 
off,  down  to  and  including  Bronk,  who  shivered, 
chattered  his  teeth,  and  bulged  his  eyes,  not 


RACKHOUSE  193 

from  cold,  but  from  a  spasm  of  purely  vicarious 
fear. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Blackie,  sir,"  he  almost  sobbed, 
"and  you,  too,  Mr.  Page.  Good-by,  gentlemen." 

"Somebody  punch  him  and  kick  him,"  rasped 
Norris.  "Turn  her  over." 

"Eighteen  thousand  dollars,  Blackie!"  called 
Jimmie,  from  the  side  of  the  garage.  "Ha!  Six 
tons  of  liquid  gold!" 

"Right-o,  Jimmie !"  answered  Norris.  "If  I 
don't  call  you  up  by  six  to-night,  send  somebody 
out  to  pick  up  the  pieces.  You  know  the  route — 
the  straight,  hard  road  all  the  way  over  and 
through." 

Of  all  the  crew  on  No.  7,  Norris  alone  knew 
that  the  truck's  destination  was  the  complacent  up 
state  town  which  for  its  own  material  good  was 
Rackhouse  Incorporated's  best  customer.  In 
case  he  were  disabled,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
shout  the  city's  name  and  any  one  of  the  men  with 
him  would  know  where  to  go.  The  run  was  a 
trifle  over  two  hundred  miles  of  excellent  turn 
pike,  and,  as  he  had  hinted  in  his  farewell  cry  to 
Jimmie,  it  was  his  intention  to  give  all  byways 
and  safety-first  detours  a  complete  miss.  He 
counted  on  a  running  average  of  at  least  twenty- 
five  miles  an  hour  and  hoped  to  be  on  the  far  end 
of  the  long-distance  telephone  by  a  little  after  one 
in  the  afternoon,  but  had  allowed  a  five-hour  mar 
gin  for  mishaps. 


Chapter  X 

THE  first  twenty  miles  in  any  direction,  with 
all  the  men  naturally  on  the  hair  trigger  of 
vigilance,  were  generally  conceded  to  be  immune 
from  danger,  and  Norris  took  advantage  of  the 
breathing  spell  to  get  the  feel  of  his  engine  and 
warm  it  up  very  gradually  to  the  high,  steady 
hum  dear  to  every  motorist's  heart.  Beside  him 
sat  Dick  Page  with  a  fresh  road  map  open  on  his 
lap  and  the  stub  of  a  pencil  held  tightly  between 
his  fingers.  As  Bill  Blood,  riding  on  the  end  of  the 
seat,  called  out  villages  and  landmarks,  Dick 
checked  them  off,  and  as  a  consequence  was  ready 
at  any  instant  to  give  the  driver  his  exact  location 
in  a  network  of  possible  routes.  It  was  purely 
a  matter  of  practice  in  this  instance,  and  presently 
Norris  put  a  stop  to  it. 

"Cut  out  the  map,  Dick,  and  pump  a  bit  more 
pressure  on  the  oil.  I  want  to  show  you  some 
thing.  The  best  this  bus  ever  did  was  forty-two 
with  Mike  at  the  wheel.  Now  watch  her  climb." 
They  were  on  a  long,  deserted  stretch,  with  the 
tops  of  three  rises  showing  in  a  straight  line  far 
before  them.  Slowly  Norris  fed  gas  to  the  engine 
until  the  accelerator  was  hard  and  fast  against  the 
floor.  The  monster  truck  picked  up  headway  as 

194 


RACKHOUSE  195 

evenly  as  a  ship  at  sea,  holding  the  road  without 
a  jounce  or  a  swerve.  There  was  something  ma 
jestic  in  the  stupendous  drone  of  its  cylinders  and 
in  the  ponderous  onrush  of  its  speed.  Dick 
glued  his  eyes  on  the  speedometer.  Moment 
after  moment  it  continued  to  climb,  not  by 
jumps,  but  by  fractions,  as  weight  began  to  get 
behind  power. 

"For  the  love  of  holy  Heaven  and  all  the 
saints,"  yelled  a  stentorian  voice  from  the  rear, 
"what  are  we  making,  Blackie?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  yelled  back  Page.  "Wait  till 
she  gets  through  piling  it  on.  She's  grazing  forty- 
four.  She's  got  all  of  forty-four  in  her  teeth  and 
just  holding  it!" 

Norris  eased  his  foot  and  slowed  down  very 
gradually  to  thirty  miles  an  hour.  The  high  steel 
dashboard  and  side  shields,  each  with  a  ten-inch 
bull's-eye  of  the  thickest  of  plate  glass,  were  up, 
and  he  was  already  hot.  Sweat  trickled  down  his 
face,  but  his  eyes  were  shining  with  a  cold,  cal 
culating  glitter.  "No  one  gives  her  credit  for 
over  forty-two,  and  I've  shown  you.  She  can  do 
forty-four.  Those  are  the  things  that  count  in 
this  game,  Dick.  Not  the  two  extra  miles,  but 
the  little  fact  that  nobody  knows  about  them." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Dick,  "that 
these  hooch  rustlers  keep  tab  on  the  speed  of  each 
of  our  trucks?" 

Norris  laughed  shortly.  "That's  just  one  of  a 
thousand  things  they  do.  You  don't  seem  to 
realize  that  their  side  of  the  game  has  more  rea- 


196  RACKHOUSE 

son  to  be  highly  organized  than  ours  and  can 
afford  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  the  difference  between  nothing 
and  the  cold,  hard  cash  that  Jimmie  and  I  pay 
for  all  our  liquor  is  the  margin  these  strong-arm 
squads  have  up  their  sleeves.  They  get  in  on  the 
rock-bottom  ground  floor  by  stealing  what  we  have 
to  pay  for  in  ready  money.  The  funny  side  of  it 
is  that  they  sell  all  their  stolen  goods  to  the  dis 
tributing  organization  built  up  by  Rackhouse 
Incorporated.  Cash  on  delivery  is  the  only  rule 
of  the  bootlegging  game,  and  it's  universally  ac 
cepted  that  whoever  hands  over  the  goods  has 
answered  all  questions." 

"Is  there  more  than  one  rustler  outfit  in  this 
neck  of  the  woods?"  asked  Dick. 

Norris  laughed  again.  "If  you  count  every  tin 
horn  bunch  of  bandits,"  he  replied,  "who  take 
the  road  with  a  made-over  truck  and  just  enough 
gas  to  limp  home  on,  there  are  dozens  in  the 
country  we  cover;  but  there's  just  one  king  crowd 
that  gives  us  most  of  our  trouble,  and  they  have 
oodles  of  brains,  and  money  to  match.  There's 
another  funny  thing.  If  this  gang  I'm  telling  you 
about  loses  out  in  a  scrap  with  one  of  our  crews, 
it  just  charges  it  up  to  profit  and  loss  and  forgets 
about  it — all  in  the  day's  work.  But  if  they  fail 
to  resteal  a  load  stolen  by  any  of  the  tin-horn  out 
fits  before  it  gets  all  the  way  home,  they  go  up  in 
the  air  with  a  bang!  That's  why  you  never  can 
tell  how  many  thirty-cent  poachers  are  in  the  field 


RACKHOUSE  19? 

at  any  given  time.  Every  week  sees  two  or  three 
of  them  wiped  out  and  one  or  a  dozen  new  ones 
taking  their  short  fling  at  bucking  the  tiger. 
Change  seats  with  Bill.  Now  keep  your  eyes  open. 
Look  over  there." 

Page  did  as  he  was  bidden  and  saw  a  wrecked 
truck  piled  up  in  a  meadow  thirty  yards  from  the 
road.  It  had  evidently  swerved  gradually  into 
the  ditch  at  the  side  of  the  highway,  turned  al 
most  at  right  angles  to  keep  its  balance,  crashed 
through  a  split-rail  fence,  and  turned  over  on 
its  side.  Bits  of  splintered  cases  and  flecks  of 
broken  glass  showed  that  it  had  been  loaded  with 
contraband. 

"That  was  a  typical  case  of  crowding,"  said 
Blackie.  "The  chap  in  the  wrecked  truck  thought 
he  had  the  speed  to  get  by;  the  other  fellow  knew 
he  hadn't.  The  one  who  was  out  of  luck  hung  on 
just  the  usual  shade  of  too  long.  His  front  wheel 
caught  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  and  from  that  minute 
the  game  was  all  up,  bar  the  shouting  of  the  other 
crowd." 

"Car  ahead,  Blackie!"  sang  out  one  of  the 
guards  on  the  tailboard.  With  a  view  unhindered 
by  the  high  dashboard  and  with  the  empty  space 
at  the  top  of  the  van  acting  as  a  sort  of  telescope, 
he  had  beaten  the  men  riding  in  front  by  several 
seconds. 

Norris  told  Dick  to  signal  that  the  warning  had 
been  heard,  and  ordered  Bill  Blood  to  get  on  his 
feet  and  study  the  automobile,  which  was  already 
in  full  sight.  "Pierce  Arrow  seven-seater  touring- 


198  RACKHOUSE 

car  with  the  top  down,"  reported  Bill,  presently, 
"driver  alone  in  front  and  two  men  in  the  back. 
Nobody  looking  around  yet.  They're  jogging 
along  at  about  twenty-five.  She's  a  new  car,  spick 
and  span.  Folks  in  her  pretty  well  dressed.  No 
gun  marks  on  'em.  I  say  we  hoot  to  pass." 

"And  I  say  you're  a  fool,"  snapped  Norris. 
"Get  out  the  map,  Dick.  I  don't  need  it,  but  I 
want  to  make  sure.  Why  should  a  Pierce  Arrow 
Six  be  toddling  along  the  Trumbull  Pike  at  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning?  If  it  didn't  start  from 
Kingston,  what  time  did  it  have  to  leave  some 
where  else  to  be  here  now?  Why  would  it  start 
from  Kingston,  anyway,  and  if  anybody  is  in  a 
hurry  enough  to  be  out  at  this  time  of  day,  why 
aren't  they  making  fifty  miles  an  hour?  Do  you 
begin  to  smell  the  nigger?" 

"Sure,"  said  Dick,  "after  you've  pointed  out  all 
the  sticks  in  the  woodpile." 

"We've  done  just  sixty-eight  miles,"  continued 
Norris.  "As  I  remember  it,  this  is  a  long,  clear 
reach  with  no  cover  to  speak  of,  and  only  one 
important  break  in  the  next  ten  miles.  That's  the 
old  Rosendale  detour." 

"You've  said  it,  Blackie,"  exclaimed  Bill.  "I 
was  over  it  last  week;  it's  in  fair  shape  and  we  can 
use  it  to  pull  around  the  guy  ahead." 

"That's  what  you  would  do,  is  it,  Bill?" 

"Sure  thing.     It's  only  a  twenty-mile  stretch?" 

"Well,  if  that's  what  you  would  do,"  concluded 
Blackie,  "it  explains  a  lot.  It  explains  why  the 
car  ahead  is  jogging  and  why  it  had  to  be  just  here 


RACKHOUSE  199 

at  this  time  in  the  morning  and  not  somewhere 
further  along  at  a  less  suspicious  hour  of  the  day. 
The  Rosendale  detour  is  the  only  possible  break, 
consequently  it's  the  key  to  the  whole  layout,  and 
if  you  feel  like  turning  into  it,  it's  because  some 
body  figured  to  make  you  feel  that  way.  I'm 
going  to  do  as  you  say,  Bill.  You  remember  the 
detour  opens  with  a  sharp  ramp.  I'm  going  to 
throw  her  at  it  with  a  roar.  But  listen  to  me. 
Are  you  listening?" 

"Ye-ah,"  grunted  Bill,  "I'm  listenin',  Blackie." 

"You  keep  your  eyes  glued  on  the  touring  car. 
Never  take  them  off  from  now  on.  If  she  checks 
her  speed  as  we  turn  into  the  detour,  you  yell, 
'Check!'  and  keep  on  yelling." 

They  came,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  the  spot  where 
the  detour  in  question  broke  to  the  left  from  the 
main  highway  at  an  acute  angle.  Norris  took  the 
turning  and  at  the  same  time  threw  out  his  clutch 
and  gave  a  full  shot  of  gas  to  the  racing  engine. 
Instantly  above  the  roar  came  Bill's  shout: 
"Check !  She  checked  hard,  Blackie !" 

"I  knew  it,"  yelled  Norris.  He  slowed  his 
engine,  clamped  on  all  brakes,  threw  in  the  re 
verse,  backed  out,  and  with  less  than  a  minute's 
total  loss  of  time  was  on  the  road  again,  going 
ahead,  gathering  momentum,  and  thundering 
down  upon  the  touring  car,  which  was  acting  like 
an  animal  half  frightened  out  of  its  wits.  In  his 
panic,  its  driver  had  forced  the  accelerator  hard 
down,  flooding  his  carburetor,  and  as  a  result  was 
actually  losing  way.  Cutting  across  the  sputtering 


200  RACKHOUSE 

backfire  of  his  engine  came  the  rattle  of  an  empty 
truck. 

"Look  back,  Dick,"  shouted  Norris.  "Look 
up  along  the  detour  we  didn't  take.  What  do  you 
see?" 

"A  truck  with  a  five-man  crew,"  reported  Page. 
"She's  slowing  down  for  the  turn.  We'll  leave 
her  a  mile  behind." 

His  attention  was  suddenly  recalled  by  Bill's 
voice  saying  in  a  husky,  malignant  tone,  "You'll 
get  'em,  Blackie!  By  God!  you'll  get  'em  I  Tip 
the  dirty  sobs  into  the  ditch  !" 

Dick  stared  aghast  at  the  touring  car.  It  had 
only  just  begun  to  pick  up,  and  already  it  seemed 
as  if  it  were  in  the  very  maw  of  the  huge  truck. 
The  men  in  the  tonneau  were  on  their  knees,  cling 
ing  to  the  back  of  the  front  seat,  and  praying  to 
God  or  to  the  chauffeur  or  to  the  engine  or  to  all 
three  for  just  a  little  more  of  what  they  had 
thought  they  had  in  unlimited  superabundance — 
speed.  Dick  blanched  and  glanced  at  Roddy  in 
credulously.  Was  there  anyone  alive  who  would 
dare  to  toss  three  well-dressed  citizens  and  a  brand 
new  Pierce  Arrow  off  a  main  highway  of  the  Em 
pire  State  in  cold  blood?  He  had  his  answer. 
The  man  at  his  side  was  not  Roddy  Norris;  he 
was  Blackie,  the  same  Blackie  who  prided  himself 
on  knocking  a  rebel  out  and  kicking  him  twice  be 
fore  his  body  found  the  floor. 

Blackie  was  nursing  No.  7  along,  lifting  her  to 
the  top  notch  of  her  power.  His  eyes  glittered; 
his  nostrils  were  drawn  into  a  long,  held  breath; 


RACKHOUSE  201 

his  lips  were  like  a  white  flat  scar;  and  his 
shoulders  were  hunched  forward  toward  the  wheel 
as  though  he,  too,  were  praying  for  just  a  little 
more  speed.  He  nursed  the  truck  up  to  within 
three  feet  of  its  easy  prey  and  began  to  edge  over 
by  inches  for  the  corner  swipe  that  was  to  send 
the  touring  car  hurtling  off  the  road.  For  thirty 
seconds  the  three  feet  held  at  exactly  three  feet; 
then  they  grew  to  four,  to  five,  to  twenty.  The 
greyhound  had  found  its  legs !  Blackie  slowed 
down,  sat  back  in  his  seat,  and  released  a  vast 
pent  sigh. 

"Who  would  have  thought  it?"  he  murmured. 
"Almost!  Almost!" 

"Almost!"  echoed  Bill,  mournfully. 

"Would  you  really  have  done  it?"  asked  Page, 
still  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 

"Would  I?"  cried  Blackie.  "Why,  you  poor 
simp,  look  where  that  car  is  now.  She's  doing 
sixty  miles  to  our  thirty-five.  Every  hour  we  run 
is  going  to  give  her  just  short  of  an  hour  to  spring 
more  trouble  traps  on  you  and  me  and  the  whole 
of  Rackhouse.  You  thought  you  were  in  for  it 
before,  you  milksop;  now  get  your  gullet  ready 
to  swallow  all  the  trouble  in  the  wide  world. 
We're  up  against  the  king  outfit,  and  it  serves  a 
full  meal.  That  brush  was  just  their  hors 
d'cenvre." 

From  that  moment  not  a  word  was  said  by  any 
one  on  No.  7  for  two  solid  hours  of  nervous  but 
uneventful  steady  running.  By  that  time  every 
body  except  Dick  had  guessed  where  the  cargo  was 


202  RACKHOUSE 

bound,  and,  as  all  the  men  knew  their  distance  to 
a  mile  without  a  glance  at  the  speedometer,  they 
began  to  surrender  against  reason  to  the  hope 
which  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast  and  to 
say  to  themselves,  "A  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
to  the  good  in  four  hours;  only  sixty-seven  more 
to  do!" 

Not  so  Norris.  He  was  convinced  that  his 
premonition  was  correct  and  was  determined  that 
its  fulfillment  should  not  catch  him  napping.  Hence 
those  two  hours  of  silence  and  the  alertness  which 
possessed  him  with  an  increasing  and  aching  inten 
sity.  When,  finally,  he  spoke,  it  was  to  break  a 
strain  that  was  rapidly  becoming  unbearable. 

"That  Rosendale  detour  was  a  pretty  trap,"  he 
said,  conversationally,  "but  I  guessed  them,  I 
guessed  them  off  the  map.  All  I  needed  to  make 
sure  was  that  instinctive  check  of  the  driver  of 
the  touring  car  when  he  thought  we  had  swal 
lowed  the  bait.  If  we  had,  Dick,  the  outfit  you 
saw  would  have  cut  off  its  power  on  the  down 
grade  and  slipped  on  top  of  us  before  we  heard  a 
sound  or  knew  a  thing.  We'd  have  lost  our 
distance." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  than 
his  animated  face  turned  white  as  a  sheet  and 
froze.  It  was  like  set  plaster.  With  a  sudden 
splutter  and  then  a  roar  a  huge  truck,  the  very 
spit  and  image  of  No.  7,  came  hurtling  down  a 
high  bank  on  the  right  to  take  the  road  on  top 
speed.  Instinctively  Norris  swerved  to  give  her 
room.  It  was  his  one  fighting  chance — that  or  go 


RACKHOUSE  203 

down  in  a  mutual  wreck  at  the  enemy's  chosen 
scene  of  ambush.  Dick  leaped  to  his  feet.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  fresh,  wide  gash  cut  slant 
wise  down  the  face  of  the  red-clay  cliff. 

"They  had  her  in  ways  like  a  ship,"  he  shouted, 
and  was  promptly  and  violently  yanked  back  into 
his  seat  by  Bill  Blood. 

"Distance !"  groaned  Blackie.  "They've  stolen 
my  distance!" 

There  was  an  agony  of  mortification  in  his  cry. 
Tears  of  rage  gathered  in  his  eyes,  and  his  lips 
opened  to  a  patter  of  oaths,  gathering  slowly  in 
intensity  and  power  as  he  settled  down  to  play 
the  game  of  games — the  game  of  life  and  death. 
The  two  trucks  were  thundering  down  the  high 
way  practically  abreast.  At  the  start  the  enemy 
had  gained  an  advantage  of  a  few  inches,  which 
Norris  was  holding  but  apparently  could  not  over 
come.  He  was  satisfied  for  the  moment  with 
things  as  they  were.  He  needed  the  respite,  such 
as  it  was,  to  study  out  every  factor  in  what  was 
sure  to  be  a  desperate  struggle.  The  first  item 
which  absorbed  his  attention  was  the  fact  that  the 
adversary  truck  was  a  twin  sister  in  make  and 
model  to  No.  7.  She  had  the  questionable  ad 
vantage  of  being  empty  except  for  her  crew  of 
driver  and  an  indeterminable  number  of  gun 
men.  Against  this  factor  were  balanced  two 
considerations — she  looked  too  new  to  be  thor 
oughly  limbered,  and  her  lack  of  ballast  made 
her  jumpy. 

"If   she's   twin    sister    to   No.    7,"    muttered 


204  RACKHOUSE 

Blackie  to  himself,  "then  her  wheels  and  her  hubs 
are  twin  sisters  to  ours." 

The  thought  absorbed  him,  filled  every  crevice 
of  his  brain.  Something  within  him — his  flair 
for  mastering  concrete  difficulties  or  the  power  of 
instant  deduction  in  the  face  of  action  and  danger 
— told  him  that  herein  lay  the  crux  of  the  situa 
tion,  the  single,  thin,  fighting  chance  to  snatch  the 
whole  of  victory.  With  the  truck  of  the  brush  of 
two  hours  before  coming  up  from  the  rear,  he 
dared  not  try  to  check  suddenly  and  fall  behind. 
He  would  scarcely  have  dared  in  any  case,  as  such 
an  action  would  have  permitted  the  watchful 
driver  of  the  new  enemy  to  side-swipe  the  bows 
of  No.  7  and  ditch  her  with  his  rear  axle  and  no 
danger  whatever  to  himself.  As  for  drawing 
slowly  ahead  and  away,  that  was  out  of  the  range 
of  possibility.  No.  There  was  just  one  answer, 
one  way  out  to  triumph,  and  it  hung  on  the  matter 
of  twin  hubs  and  his  ability  to  judge  the  relative 
positions  of  the  two  racing  monsters  to  a  hair's 
breadth. 

He  knew  that  from  this  spot  the  road  stretched 
out  wide  and  practically  level  for  a  distance  of 
three  miles  and  that  a  portion  of  it  was  built  up 
a  few  feet  above  the  floor  of  a  soggy  marsh.  He 
saw  in  these  features  an  advantage  to  himself  and 
recognized  that  it  was  due  to  no  leniency  or  stu 
pidity  on  the  part  of  the  bandits'  master  brain,  but 
to  the  location  of  the  clay  cliff  which  had  been  the 
keystone  factor  in  a  masterly  plot.  Without  that 
high  bank  and  the  steep  slide  cut  into  its  side  the 


RACKHOUSE  205 

enemy  could  never  have  got  the  jump  on  him  and 
made  a  mockery  before  his  men  of  his  much- 
vaunted  slogan  of  Distance. 

Running  abreast,  the  two  trucks  hogged  the  en 
tire  highway,  with  but  a  narrow  margin  on  either 
side.  However,  Norris  had  no  doubts  whatever 
as  to  their  getting  a  clear  road.  The  roar  of  their 
engines  bellowed  too  loud  a  challenge  for  the  right 
of  way  to  be  either  unheard,  misunderstood,  or 
denied.  As  though  to  prove  the  justice  of  his  con 
fidence,  Dick  shrieked  out  above  the  deafening 
racket,  "Did  you  see  that?" 

He  did  not  expect  to  be  heard,  much  less 
heeded.  He  was  seated  stiffly,  holding  himself 
clamped  to  the  driving  bench  with  both  hands  and 
stretching  every  tendon  of  his  neck  and  body  to  get 
a  free  view  of  the  whole  field  of  vision  above  the 
high  dash.  Tears  of  excitement  were  trickling 
down  his  cheeks.  His  heart  was  pounding  as 
though  in  a  desperate  effort  to  equal  the  Gatling- 
gun  rattle  of  the  cylinders.  What  had  dragged 
his  cry  out  of  him?  The  sight  of  an  old-fashioned 
buggy  drawn  violently  off  the  highway;  of  its  mare 
in  harness  hung  on  her  belly  across  the  top  rail 
of  the  fence  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  jump;  of  the 
faces  of  a  farmer  and  his  lanky  son  weirdly  re 
versed  on  their  shoulders  and  staring  gawk  eyed 
and  open  mouthed  at  the  battle  to  the  death  of  two 
leviathans  of  the  open  road. 

Conscience-stricken  at  his  levity,  Dick  turned  to 
glance  at  Roddy's  set  face,  and  instantly  he  be 
came  subdued  and  awed  by  what  he  saw.  Every 


206  RACKHOUSE 

claim  to  intimacy  with  Blackie  or  his  antecedents, 
the  Black  Mask,  Capt.  Roderic  Norris,  or  the 
Roddy  of  friendship's  idle  hours,  was  swept  aside, 
lost  on  the  wings  of  the  rushing  wind.  Here  was 
something  new,  something  different,  something 
never  before  perceived  even  in  his  short  though 
supremely  tragic  span  of  life.  It  was  power,  mer 
cilessly  impersonal,  coupled  starkly  to  the  will  to 
do  or  die,  and  giving  a  vivid  impression  of  basic 
nakedness,  so  that  the  distention  of  muscles,  the 
sockets  of  bones,  and  the  very  conformation  of 
the  eyeballs  seemed  to  stand  out  unfleshed,  their 
locked  fixity  made  terrifyingly  visible. 

Hair  by  hair,  inch  by  inch,  No.  7  was  gnawing 
away  the  half-foot  lead  of  her  assailant,  creeping 
up,  drawing  nearer  by  imperceptible  gradations. 
Dick  glanced  at  the  speedometer.  It  registered  a 
fraction  under  forty-three.  What  was  the  matter? 
Why  wasn't  she  doing  the  forty-four  of  the  early 
morning?  Again  he  looked  at  Blackie's  face,  and 
it  told  him  the  answer.  Blackie  was  holding  in  his 
sleeve  a  single  mile  of  priceless  speed.  Dick  re 
membered  all  he  knew  of  the  laws  of  impetus  and 
direction.  He  frowned.  From  their  position  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  only  hope  was  to  draw 
ahead  until  they  could  skid  their  rear  hub  against 
the  front  wheel  of  the  rival  car.  Why  didn't 
Blackie  do  it?  he  thought,  and  immediately  an 
swered  himself,  "He  hasn't  time,  saphead." 

A  man  leaned  out  from  the  front  seat  of  the. 
attacking  truck  and  fired  a  shot  at  the  bull's-eye 
close  to  Dick's  cheek.  The  glass  held;  the  bullet 


RACKHOUSE  207 

ricocheted  from  its  slightly  convex  surface  and 
flattened  out  like  putty  against  the  steel  rim  of 
the  spy  hole. 

"A  wad  of  chewing-gum,"  gasped  Dick,  staring 
at  the  blotch  of  lead.  "It  looks  like  chewing 
gum." 

Undismayed,  the  bandit  took  his  gun  by  the 
barrel  and  began  hammering  methodically  with  its 
butt  on  the  glass.  His  face  was  very  near,  every 
line  accented.  It  was  strangely  impassive  and  un 
perturbed.  "Tap !  Tap !  Tap !  Tap  I"  cut  in 
sistently  through  the  continuing  din  of  the  engines. 

"Just  like  a  woodpecker,"  whispered  Dick,  fas 
cinated,  "tapping  away  at  a  tree!  Just  like  a 
woodpecker!" 

A  shout  from  Roddy  recalled  him.  "Dick,"  he 
yelled,  "are  we  even  with  them,  hub  for  hub?" 

"Yes,"  bawled  Dick,  "as  near  as  anyone  but 
God  can  see." 

"How  far  away,  front  and  back?" 

"Close;  so  damned  close,  it  looks  as  if  we  were 
touching.  There's  a  man  hammering,  Roddy — 
hammering  on  the  glass." 

"Forget  him!"  shouted  Norris,  hoarsely,  "he's 
knocking  on  the  door  of  hell." 

Dick  could  not  obey.  Never,  as  long  as  he 
lived,  would  he  forget  the  woodpecker  man, 
clamped  against  the  side  of  No.  7,  patiently  beat 
ing  at  the  glass  as  a  necessary  preliminary  to 
starting  the  shooting  in  earnest.  If  Blackie  would 
only  draw  out  suddenly,  the  man  would  almost 

certainly  tumble  between  the  trucks.    Dick  wanted 
14 


208  RACKHOUSE 

this  to  happen.  He  imagined  the  body  being  bat 
tered,  hit  twice,  perhaps,  lightning  blows,  before  it 
fell.  His  eyes  grew  hungry  for  the  sight.  He 
wanted  to  speak  to  Roddy  about  it,  but  Bill  and 
the  roar  of  the  engines — that  eternal  roar  of  the 
engines — were  in  the  way.  He  looked  at  Blackie 
and  saw  that  his  lips  were  moving.  He  leaned 
across  Bill  to  listen. 

"Just  a  moment!  O  Lord!  In  a  moment!" 
Roddy  was  saying  out  loud,  and  then,  quite  sud 
denly,  his  face  and  his  eyes  grew  luminous,  glar 
ing.  A  quivering  ripple  seemed  to  supple  his 
tense  body.  He  drew  his  head  back  into  his  neck 
like  a  snake  about  to  strike.  His  hands  tightened 
on  the  wheel  until  knuckles  and  fingers  turned  dead 
white  like  paper.  His  right  foot  jammed  the 
accelerator  all  the  way  home. 

"Now!"  he  shrieked.  "Damn  them  I" 
With  a  lightning  movement,  too  swift  for  the 
eye  to  follow,  he  threw  the  steering  wheel  toward 
and  then  away  from  the  roaring  truck  at  the  right. 
Hub,  front  and  rear,  crashed  to  hub;  twelve  tons 
to  six.  The  huge  empty  van  bounced  into  the  air, 
four  footed,  like  a  startled  cat;  came  down  with 
its  front  wheels  wrenched  away  from  the  blow, 
scurried  ponderously  across  the  narrow  margin 
of  safety,  took  a  sickening  nose  dive  from  the 
bank,  and  up-ended.  Engine,  fore  wheels,  driver's 
seat — all  disappeared,  buried  in  the  mud,  cut  from 
view  as  though  with  a  monster  scythe.  There  re 
mained  an  enormous  black  packing  case,  standing 
erect,  four  square,  immutable,  fixed  as  a  monu- 


RACKHOUSE  209 

ment  to  the  dead.  Save  for  a  shuddering  jounce, 
No.  7  had  held  the  road.  No  one  on  her  shouted, 
and  no  one  spoke  until  Blackie,  driving  only  with 
his  right  hand,  slowed  her  down  and  muttered 
through  bloodless  lips,  "Bill,  take  the  wheel." 

In  silence  the  exchange  was  effected  and  it  was 
only  when  Page  saw  Norris's  body  suddenly  slump 
that  he  broke  the  spell  of  awe  and  cried:  "Bill! 
Blackie  has  fainted!" 

"Sure,"  replied  Bill,  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  highway.  "His  left  arm's  broke  in  two 
places ;  mebbe  more.  You  don't  think  he  held  her 
to  the  road  through  that  bump  with  his  eyelashes, 
doyuh?" 

Dick  lifted  Roddy  gently,  half  turned  him,  and 
steadied  his  limp  body  against  his  own  shoulder. 
No  one  else  paid  any  heed  to  the  accident.  Bill 
continued  giving  all  his  attention  to  driving,  and 
the  rest  of  the  crew  knew  better  than  to  leave 
their  posts.  As  long  as  No.  7  was  making  good 
time  in  the  right  direction,  every  question  was 
answered,  and  they  had  no  curiosity  for  possible 
details.  An  hour  passed.  Norris  came  to  with 
out  fuss.  Occasionally  he  would  open  his  eyes  and 
then  close  them  again.  Presently  Dick  noticed 
that  they  stayed  open. 

"Feeling  a  bit  better,  Roddy?"  he  asked. 

"Never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  replied  Norris, 
gruffly.  "Leave  the  arm  loose,  but  hold  me  a  bit 
tighter.  I'm  slipping." 

Page  followed  out  the  instructions,  but  said 
nothing  more.  He  had  a  strange  feeling  that  he 


210  RACKHOUSE 

had  just  tried  to  salvage  Roddy  away  from  the 
triumph  of  brutality  and  had  failed.  Blackie  was 
still  Blackie,  and  Blackie  was  king.  More  than 
ever  before,  his  men — he  himself — would  think 
of  himself  as  power,  raised  above  the  reaches  of 
proof  and  test,  secure  forever  upon  his  self-made 
tower  of  supremacy. 

Norris  broke  a  long  silence.  "It  was  the  in 
finitesimal  fraction  that  did  it,"  he  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  either  Bill  or  Dick.  "Say  our 
front  hub  caught  theirs  a  millionth  of  a  second 
before  we  hit  their  rear  hub,  say  we  were  going 
one  hundredth  of  a  mile  faster  than  they  were — 
it  would  have  been  enough.  Enough  to  send  them 
clear!" 

"How  long  did  the  race  last?"  asked  Dick,  in 
the  tone  of  one  remembering  eternity. 

"From  the  red-clay  bank  to  the  middle  of  the 
marsh,"  replied  Norris,  "is  about  a  mile.  What 
do  you  say,  Bill?" 

"Mile  an'  a  quarter  to  where  we  hit  'em,"  an 
swered  Bill,  promptly.  "I  was  keepin'  tabs  on 
the  speed  clock." 

"At  forty  miles  an  hour,"  continued  Norris, 
"that's  two-thirds  to  the  minute.  Add  the  other 
third  and  a  quarter.  That's  one-twelfth  over  the 
halfway  mark,  but  let  it  go  because  we  were  doing 
more  than  forty.  We  were  doing  forty-three.  So 
the  race,  as  you  call  it,  lasted  a  minute  and  a  half 
— a  fraction  over  a  minute  and  a  half." 

"A  minute  and  a  half!"  repeated  Dick,  incredu 
lously.  "Impossible!"  He  was  amazed  that  the 


RACKHOUSE  211 

horror  of  what  had  taken  place  at  the  climax  of 
the  terrific  struggle  scarcely  touched  him.  So 
jumbled  had  become  his  faculties  of  perception  in 
the  crowding  of  one  incredible  event  on  the  heels 
of  another  that  all  he  could  concentrate  upon 
now  was  the  insignificant  detail  of  how  long  it 
had  taken  Nemesis  to  ride  the  wind,  beat  the  wind, 
and  strike ! 

"There's  the  guide,  Blackie,"  sang  out  Bill, 
"blowing  his  nose  with  one  hand." 

They  stopped  to  pick  up  the  stranger.  He 
swung  aboard  and  stood  between  Dick's  knees, 
holding  to  the  dash  and  directing  Bill  where  to 
go.  They  skirted  the  environs  of  the  town  of 
their  destination,  turned  down  a  residential  street, 
and  drove  into  a  private  garage.  The  doors 
slammed  shut  behind  them.  Norris  was  lifted 
down,  and  almost  immediately  $18,000  changed 
hands.  As  soon  as  the  transaction  was  completed 
he  asked  to  be  helped  to  the  phone. 

"Forget  it,"  said  Dick,  impulsively.  "Leave  it 
to  me.  You  need  a  doctor." 

"You !  Phone  the  old  man !"  exclaimed  Norris. 
"Not  on  your  life.  If  he  heard  any  voice  but 
mine  he  might  fall  dead." 

They  got  him  the  long-distance  connection. 
"That  you,  Jimmie?  .  ,  .  Blackie  speaking. 
O.  K." 

He  rang  off,  turned  to  Dick,  gave  him  the 
$18,000  and  Bill  as  a  bodyguard,  and  instructed 
him  fully  as  to  the  buying  of  a  draft.  Then  he 
asked  his  host  to  telephone  for  a  doctor  and  also 


212  RACKHOUSE 

to  charter  the  best  touring  car  available  in  the 
town.  By  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  his 
broken  arm  in  splints  and  firmly  bound  to  his  body, 
he  was  on  the  road  again,  bolstered  against  many 
pillows,  and  with  Dick  at  his  side  and  Bill  at  the 
wheel.  The  rest  of  the  drivers  had  been  detailec\ 
to  run  No.  7  home. 

Mile  upon  mile  slipped  by.  Norris  dozed; 
Dick  slept;  and  in  due  course  Bill  switched  on  his 
headlights.  At  a  few  minutes  after  eight  the  car 
honked  a  warning  of  arrival  and  drew  up  at  the 
front  entrance  to  Rackhouse.  Jimmie  had  opened 
the  door  and  was  waiting  on  the  narrow  veranda. 
At  sight  of  Norris  he  rushed  down  the  steps. 

"Blackie!"  he  cried,  his  eyes  suddenly  suffused 
and  his  pale  cheeks  flaming  red.  "Did  they  wing 
you,  boy?" 

"Broken  arm,  Jimmie,"  said  Norris,  shortly. 
"Help  me  out  of  this  and  get  me  to  bed.  I'm 
ready  and  willing  to  call  it  a  day." 


Chapter  XI 

JIMMIE  spent  the  most  of  the  following  morn 
ing  at  Blackie's  bedside,  talking  over  many 
things.  He  told  him  that  Mike  and  Whale  Villar 
had  just  turned  up,  already  tired  of  holiday  and 
keen  for  the  road,  and  that  business  was  in  such 
fine  shape  that  Rackhouse  Incorporated  could 
afford  a  higher  percentage  of  losses  in  exchange 
for  a  little  less  worry. 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  asked  Norris,  im 
patiently.  "If  you're  trying  to  get  me  to  lay  off 
for  a  couple  of  weeks,  save  your  breath,  because 
that's  just  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to 
take  Bronk  and  move  into  town.  I'm  going  to 
morrow,  and  when  I'm  ready  I'm  going  to  come 
back." 

"That's  fine,  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie,  in  a  con 
ciliating  tone;  "couldn't  be  better.  I  thought 
you'd  be  doing  that,  and  that's  why  I  wanted  to 
have  a  talk  with  you — sort  of  put  things  all  square 
so  you'd  know  where  you  stand.  I  spent  all  day 
yesterday  on  the  books.  Of  course,  I  knew  what 
liquor  stocks  we  have  on  hand  and  just  what  the 
plant  and  the  gear  stand  for  in  paid-out  cash, 
but  I  wanted  to  check  up  more  than  that,  so  I  got 
out  our  bank  books  and  went  over  them.  Then 

213 


214  RACKHOUSE 

I  took  our  listed  securities  and  lined  them  up 
against  yesterday's  market  prices,  and  I  tell  you 
the  game  is  getting  ahead  of  us." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Norris. 

"I  mean  we've  got  too  much  money  lying 
around  doing  nothing.  Short  of  a  boom  and 
snatching  a  profit,  it's  dead.  What  I'm  going  to 
do  and  what  you  ought  to  do  is  to  sink  a  pile  of 
it  in  gilt-edged  stocks  or  rentable  real  estate  or 
government  bonds.  If  we  hold  a  hundred  thou 
sand  more  or  less  foot-loose,  that's  plenty  for  buy 
ing  up  any  liquor  we  need  to  keep  well  ahead  of 
deliveries." 

"A  hundred  thousand,"  repeated  Norris,  his 
eyes  narrowing.  "Well,  where  do  we  stand?" 

"What  do  you  think,  Blackie?  If  we  just 
cleared  away  the  stuff  we  have  on  hand  and 
liquidated  the  whole  of  our  quick  assets,  to  what 
figure  would  you  think  the  melon  would  run?" 

"A  million,"  said  Norris,  after  a  long  pause. 

"As  near  as  I  can  make  it,"  said  Jimmie,  with  a 
characteristic  glance  of  caution  over  his  shoulder, 
"the  lowest  I  can  figure  it,  boy,  is  between  four 
and  five  hundred  thousand  over  your  million.  Ha  I 
Nobody  dreams  that,  eh,  Blackie?  Nobody 
dreams  what  liquid  gold  can  do!  Five  months. 
Five  months  at  an  average  clear  profit  of  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars  a  month!  And  we're 
not  the  only  ones.  It's  happening  at  choice  spots 
all  over  the  country;  New  York  to  San  Francisco, 
Galveston  to  Detroit." 

Norris  leaned  back  against  the  pillows.     He 


RACKHOUSE  215 

was  not  conscious  of  any  special  elation  over  the 
figures  cited  by  Jimmie.  Ever  since  his  first  les 
son  in  finance — that  initial  day's  begging  which 
had  brought  in  over  four  hundred  dollars  of  other 
people's  money — he  had  been  gaining  an  increas 
ingly  shrewd  faculty  for  accurate  estimates.  He 
had  put  his  guess  low  to  please  his  eager,  parrot- 
nosed  partner,  whose  appearance  at  this  moment 
was  strangely  reminiscent  of  the  money-counting 
hours  of  Smudge  Alley.  He  had  even  felt  a  slight 
twinge  of  disappointment  at  the  grand  total  of  a 
million  and  a  half,  reminding  himself  that  it 
would  have  to  be  split  in  two.  Since  first  he  had 
accepted  the  partnership  on  a  basis  of  equal 
division,  never  had  it  entered  his  head  to  reopen 
the  matter  of  the  equity  of  the  arrangement.  The 
question  was  not  whether  he  deserved  half,  but 
simply  that  he  could  get  it. 

"Well,  Jimmie,"  he  said,  finally,  "you  go  ahead 
and  do  as  you  said.  Put  aside  a  safe  hundred 
thousand,  and  then  split  the  balance  of  what  se 
curities  we've  got  loose  into  two  equal  piles  and 
give  me  the  choice.  That's  square,  isn't  it?" 

"Square  as  a  silver  dollar,"  said  Jimmie, 
promptly.  "I'll  get  busy  on  it  now." 

He  started  to  leave,  but  stopped.  "By  the 
way,"  he  added,  "Dick  is  in  bad  on  that  monkey 
business." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Norris,  quickly. 

Jimmie  fished  a  newspaper  clipping  from  his 
pocket,  laid  it  on  the  bed,  and  left  the  room. 
Without  touching  the  slip  Norris  could  read  the 


216  RACKHOUSE 

heading:  "Lieut.  Richard  Page,  War  Hero, 
Dropped  from  Legion  Roster."  He  picked  up  the 
bit  of  paper,  read  it  through,  folded  it  once,  and 
slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  pajama  jacket. 
Jimmie  was  about  to  hand  over  to  him  securities 
for  something  over  $600,000.  Six  weeks  ago  six 
thousand  would  have  saved  Dick! 

The  next  morning,  with  Dick  at  the  wheel, 
Norris  at  his  side,  and  Bronk  in  the  rumble,  the 
roadster  set  out  for  town  and  the  Royal.  They 
drove  very  slowly,  avoiding  every  jolt,  and  all  the 
way  in  Norris  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  breast 
pocket  that  held  a  delivery  order  for  over  a  half 
million  dollars'  worth  of  marketable  securities 
rubbing  faces  with  the  clipping  which  had  bla 
zoned  Lieutenant  Page's  shame  to  the  world.  He 
could  imagine  the  vain  efforts  that  had  been  made 
to  get  in  touch  with  Dick  before  sentence  had  been 
passed  on  him  without  a  hearing,  and  how  the 
failure  to  find  him  at  any  of  his  old  haunts  had 
come  to  cap  the  sequence  of  circumstantial  evi 
dence  aligned  against  him.  Rockman  must  be  out 
of  town.  If  he  had  been  around  he  would  not 
have  let  the  injustice  come  about  at  any  price. 

"He  bought  it,"  said  Norris  to  himself,  and 
futile  anger  began  to  well  up  in  him.  "I  told  him 
he  had  bought  it." 

He  had  had  no  chance  to  show  the  clipping  to 
Dick  on  the  previous  day,  and  now  the  inclination 
to  do  so  was  rapidly  passing.  The  milk  was 
spilled.  Let  him  find  out  about  it  for  himself. 
It  was  the  newspapermen  who  were  to  blame. 


RACKHOUSE  217 

They  were  an  unforgiving  lot.  News  getting 
made  them  merciless.  Dick  might  have  guessed 
what  was  coming  when  he  had  been  handed  the 
monkey  article  to  read.  Hadn't  he  seen  the  last 
sentence — the  one  about  the  Black  Mask  having 
collected  $6,000  of  the  people's  money?  Why 
couldn't  he  have  figured  out  for  himself  the  sting 
in  that  scorpion's  tail? 

Norris  could  imagine,  too,  the  part  played  by 
hotheads  of  the  Legion  post — Dick's  and  his  own 
— egged  on  by  some  young  war-veteran  reporter 
fresh  from  the  shrewd-tongued  tattle  of  the  city 
room.  He  could  even  see  how  he  himself  had 
been  saved,  raised  high  above  suspicion,  by  the 
reputation  of  Capt.  Roderic  Norris.  How  was  it 
that  Rocksie  had  put  it?  "Because  you  are  you, 
Roddy;  because  you  are  money  and  leisure  and 
position  and  charm  and  everything  that  is  un 
assailable."  Yes,  he  had  been  all  that  and  more. 
Many  a  poor  chap  had  taken  favors  from  his 
left  hand  which  his  right  and  his  friends  never 
knew.  He  drew  erect  with  such  a  start  that  Dick 
slowed  the  car  almost  to  a  complete  stop. 

"Arm  get  you?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  much,"  replied  Norris.  "Drive  on 
and  get  it  over  with.  Hit  it  up  a  bit." 

He  was  lying  calmly,  if  not  in  so  many  words, 
at  least  in  intention.  He  had  felt  no  twinge  of 
his  broken  arm.  What  had  startled  him  was  the 
discovery  that  he  could  review  Roddy  Norris,  sum 
him  up  dispassionately,  condone  his  weaknesses, 
admire  his  peculiar  powers  of  attraction  and  ac- 


218  RACKHOUSE 

cept  him  in  retrospect  as  an  especially  fine  speci 
men  of  his  kind.  He  could  do  this  without  the 
slightest  confusion  of  personalities  with  the  in 
dividual  he  was  to-day.  Roddy  Norris — smiling 
Roddy  Norris — had  certainly  been  an  all-round 
fine  chap. 

The  Black  Mask,  too,  funny  sort  of  a  fellow. 
Not  much  good  company  about  him.  But  he  had 
picked  up  a  trail  and  stuck  to  it  like  a  bloodhound. 
He  certainly  had.  Nobody  could  move  him,  no 
body  could  make  him  give  himself  away.  The 
things  Roddy  Norris  had  cut  loose  from  to  do  it! 
No,  that  wasn't  right.  He  had  cut  loose  from 
nothing;  the  Black  Mask  had  been  born  clear. 
Born  quite  new  but  entire.  There  had  been  no 
shading  from  dawn  to  day  about  that  episode; 
nothing  short  of  one  long  flare  of  heat  lightning! 

Having  visualized  from  a  sort  of  sublimated 
detachment  Roddy  and  the  Black  Mask,  he  now 
summoned  Blackie  in  his  turn — not  the  Blackie 
of  Millie  and  Smudge  Alley,  but  the  Blackie  who 
had  established  himself  as  the  boss  of  Rackhouse 
Incorporated  and  risen  by  fist  and  foot,  squared 
jaw  and  the  blazing  eye  of  a  demoniacal  killer  to 
the  apotheosis  of  the  triumphant  race  and  crash 
of  the  leviathans  on  the  Trumbull  Pike.  A  great 
man,  Blackie.  No  nonsense.  No  trimmings — 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  Just  a  man.  And  the 
price  of  victory — merely  a  broken  arm. 

He  caressed  the  splints  with  his  right  hand. 
Dick,  turning  his  head  and  catching  a  glimpse  of 
the  expression  on  his  companion's  face,  had  a 


RACKHOUSE  219 

weird  feeling  of  having  the  Great  Sphinx  of  Gizeh 
for  a  passenger.  The  impressions  of  opaqueness, 
withdrawal,  and  mystery  were  merged,  almost 
lost,  in  an  uncanny  suggestion  of  weight  and 
power  behind  a  faint  half  smile  of  scorn  for  every 
last  thing  that  Roddy  Norris  had  once  stood  for. 
So  strong  was  the  effect  on  Dick  of  his  own  fan 
tastical  conception,  that  he  again  slowed  down  to 
a  snail's  pace  and  deliberately  searched  the  graven 
countenance  for  some  remembered  trace.  Roddy, 
the  Black  Mask,  Blackie — he  had  known  them 
all.  Yet,  here  at  his  side,  was  a  stranger. 

In  spite  of  his  broken  arm,  Norris  entered  his 
old  quarters  with  an  assurance  which  sat  well  on 
his  broad  shoulders,  but  scarcely  had  he  crossed 
the  threshold  when  he  was  brought  up  all  stand 
ing,  taken  fair  aback  by  some  force  from  without 
himself  which  was  as  subtle  and  all-pervading  as 
it  was  intangible.  He  stared  at  the  familiar,  dust- 
laden  furnishings,  and  a  look  of  bewilderment 
swept  across  the  face  which  only  a  moment  be 
fore  had  been  so  securely  impenetrable.  Old 
associations  were  embattled  against  him.  They 
came  singly  and  by  cohorts,  trooping  out  of  the 
past  on  padded  feet.  His  gaze  wavered, 
wandered,  and  caught  the  eyes  of  Bronk  and  Dick 
fastened  upon  him  with  an  intense  personal  curi 
osity.  Instantly  he  drew  erect  and,  head  up,  chin 
thrust  forward,  advanced  with  the  visible  effort 
of  one  who  breasts  a  high  sea.  He  sat  down  on 
the  first  chair  that  came  to  hand  and  ordered 
Bronk  to  prepare  the  bedroom. 


220  RACKHOUSE 

"Arm  hurting  you  ?"  asked  Dick,  with  a  genuine 
solicitude  which  went  deeper  than  the  perfunctory 
question. 

"Hell,  no!"  exclaimed  Norris,  impatiently,  and 
then  raised  his  vacant  gaze  from  the  floor,  lifted 
it  slowly  as  though  it  were  actually  ponderous, 
higher  and  higher,  until  his  eyes  met  those  of 
Page  and  held  them. 

Dick  was  fascinated  by  that  look.  It  gave  an 
impression  of  clamped  jaws,  of  teeth  deliberately 
driven  deep  and  clinging  by  intention.  He  was 
conscious  of  something  behind  and  beyond 
Roddy,  something  more  hidden  than  the  Black 
Mask,  something  greater  than  Blackie  at  his  great 
est,  something  that  made  him  think  vaguely  of 
trodden  battle  grounds,  of  dogged  wars  and 
nations  at  each  other's  throats.  Then,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  burst  into  nervous  laughter  at  the 
grandiose  absurdity  of  this  second  flight  of  his 
fantasy  into  the  unaccustomed  ether  of  imagina 
tive  hyperbole,  a  pitiful  thing  happened.  Roddy's 
determined  gaze  broke,  snapped,  turned  futile  as  a 
shattered  pipe  stem  of  fragile  clay. 

The  revelation  passed  as  quickly  as  a  glimmer 
of  lightning,  but  in  the  fraction  of  time  between 
feeling  and  losing  the  grip  of  the  eyes  of  his 
stranger-companion,  Dick  caught  a  terrifying 
glimpse  of  the  crater  of  a  soul.  Immediately  he 
was  seized  with  embarrassment.  His  own  eyes 
wavered  and  then  wandered  desperately.  He  had 
no  impulse  whatever  toward  comforting.  All  his 
thought  was  bent  on  getting  away,  on  muttering 


RACKHOUSE  221 

some  trifling  excuse  for  withdrawal  that  would  not 
sound  like  a  groan.  He  abandoned  the  effort  and 
turned  hurriedly  to  leave  the  room. 

"One  minute,"  said  Norris,  quietly,  his  face 
grown  completely  impassive.  He  raised  his  hand 
toward  the  pocket  where  the  clipping,  fatal  to 
Dick  by  reason  of  a  paltry  $6,000,  hobnobbed 
with  slips  of  paper  which  stood  for  over  half  a 
million;  but,  as  though  the  shiftiness  which  had 
reassumed  for  a  moment  its  sway  over  his  eyes 
had  infected  all  his  sources  of  co-ordination,  the 
hand  trembled,  paused,  stopped.  He  glanced 
quickly  at  Dick  and  away.  A  sudden  change  of 
intention  proclaimed  itself  as  plainly  as  though 
he  had  declared  it  aloud. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  repeated,  in  a  different 
tone.  "Jimmie  expects  you  back  at  Rackhouse 
any  time  to-night.  You'll  have  to  help  him  out 
with  my  job  for  a  while.  If  any  of  the  rough 
necks  in  the  outfit  try  to  put  anything  over  on 
you,  tell  them  the  doctor  says  I'll  be  out  in  a  week 
or  two  and  stronger  than  ever."  His  eyes  nar 
rowed.  "Tell  Jimmie,"  he  added,  as  though  by 
an  afterthought,  "that,  beginning  with  to-mor 
row,  your  pay  is  doubled." 

Dick  nodded.  "I  think  I'll  knock  around  for 
a  bit,"  he  said.  "Anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Norris,  absently.  "Bronk  will 
fix  me  up." 

As  soon  as  Dick  left  the  Royal  his  feelings  rose 
rapidly  to  an  exuberance  he  had  not  known  for 
many  a  day.  His  pockets  were  full  of  money  and 


222  RACKHOUSE 

he  was  young,  healthy,  and  hungry.  What  more 
could  a  man  ask?  He  made  straight  for  the 
club,  and  while  he  was  yet  on  the  sidewalk  hailed 
with  a  smile  and  wave  of  his  hand  a  group  of 
familiar  faces,  Rockman's  among  them,  in  the 
broad  windows.  They  looked  startled,  as  though 
his  return  after  a  long  absence  was  something  to 
occasion  surprise  rather  than  the  joy  of  welcome 
to  which  he  was  accustomed,  and  one  by  one  they 
faded  quickly  from  sight.  He  was  puzzled,  but 
his  brow  cleared  as  he  scented  a  conspiracy  to  play 
a  joke  on  him.  A  moment  later  he  was  greeting 
Rockman,  who  hurried  to  meet  him  in  the  hall. 

"Hello,  Rocksie,  old  scout !  How  are  the  bones 
of  body  and  fortune?" 

Rockman  caught  his  hand,  shook  it  so  long  and 
looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  that  Dick  grew 
vexed.  "Say,  what  is  this?  Are  you  all  playing 
funeral?  Cut  it  out.  I  was  happy,  I  am  happy, 
and  I'm  going  to  be  happy.  Let  me  go  in  and  get 
greeted,  preferably  by  somebody  with  a  loaded 
locker." 

"Dick,"  said  Rockman,  "I've  got  something  to 
tell  you  before  you  see  anyone  else.  You  come 
with  me." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  small,  deserted  smoking 
room  on  the  second  floor,  and  closed  the  door 
when  they  had  entered.  Dick  had  followed  him 
with  a  wavering  smile  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips, 
as  if  he  were  striving  to  hold  himself  ready  to 
laugh  at  the  proper  moment,  but  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone  he  surrendered  to  the  gravity  of  Rock- 


RACKHOUSE  223 

man's  manner  and  asked,  soberly,  "Well,  Rocksie, 
what  is  it?" 

Rockman  paced  up  and  down  nervously  for  a 
moment,  then  faced  about,  took  a  clipping  from 
his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  Dick.  "Read  that." 

The  heading  alone  was  enough  to  make  Dick's 
face  blanch,  but  it  turned  whiter  and  whiter  as 
he  read  on,  until  Rockman  stepped  toward  him 
with  a  quick  protective  movement.  Dick  waved 
him  away.  "No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "I'm  not  going 
to  topple  over  or  do  anything  ladylike.  Give  me 
time.  I — I've  got  to  think." 

He  read  the  clipping  through  again  from  end 
to  end,  folded  it  carefully,  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  then  stood  staring  wide  eyed  at  the  floor  for 
moment  after  moment.  Rockman  waited  in  vain 
for  the  flare  of  anger  which  he  had  thought  in 
evitable.  The  white  face  of  the  youngest  and 
most  beloved  of  his  friends  remained  strangely 
unemotional,  intensely  concentrated  on  considera 
tions  far  removed  from  rage  or  recrimination. 

Rockman's  patience  came  to  an  end.  "Do  you 
think  Roddy  has  seen  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  wonder,"  murmured  Dick,  absently. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  cried  Rockman,  "that 
there  is  a  possibility  of  his  having  seen  it  and 
not  come  running  to  put  the  thing  straight?  If 
I  thought  that,  I'd  have  shouted  his  name  and  the 
truth  about  this  business  all  around  town.  I  was 
in  my  camp  in  the  backwoods  when  I  read  it  and 
I  couldn't  get  back  here  fast  enough." 

"When  did  you  get  in?"  asked  Dick,  quickly. 

15 


224  RACKHOUSE 

"What  have  you  said  to  the  fellows  here  in  the 
club  or  to  anyone  else?" 

"I  got  here  only  a  couple  of  hours  ago,"  replied 
Rockman,  "and  all  I've  said  is  that  the  story  was 
a  lie  and  the  action  of  the  Legion  an  unqualified 
outrage." 

"Well,  that's  enough,"  said  Dick.  "Promise 
me  you  won't  say  another  word,  will  you?" 

Rockman  stared  at  him.  "Dick,  what  do 
you  mean  by  that?  Have  you  any  half-baked 
notion " 

"Don't  say  it,"  interrupted  Dick.  "Give  me 
time,  Rocksie.  There's  Ruth,  too,"  he  added 
thoughtfully.  "She  knows  the  truth.  We've  got 
to  get  hold  of  her.  I've  got  to  have  her  promise 
as  well.  Where  is  she?  Do  you  know?" 

"She's  down  at  their  place  on  the  North  Shore." 

"Let's  have  lunch  here  as  quickly  as  we  can  get 
it,"  said  Dick,  "and  then  run  down  there.  I've 
got  to  see  her,  and  you've  got  to  come  along." 

"Dick,"  said  Rockman,  "if  you  don't  intend  to 
pitch  right  in  and  clear  yourself,  privately  and 
openly,  why — well,  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to 
lunch  in  the  club." 

Dick  threw  up  his  head  and  flushed  scarlet. 
"AH  right,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  and  giving 
Rockman  a  peculiar,  measuring  look.  "We'll 
lunch  outside." 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  said  Rockman, 
flushing  in  his  turn.  "You  know  in  your  heart 
that  I'll  lunch  with  you  anywhere  and  any  time 
now  and  forever,  but  I've  had  twenty-four  hours 


RACKHOUSE  225 

to  think  this  thing  over  and  a  chance  to  size  up 
the  damage  that  has  been  done.  If  you  walk  out 
of  here  with  the  intention  of  keeping  your  mouth 
shut,  get  ready  to  take  a  cut  from  every  man  you 
know." 

For  an  instant  Dick's  eyes  became  suffused;  then 
he  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  and  head  as  if 
to  clear  it  of  trouble,  threw  back  his  shoulders, 
smiled,  and  said:  "Come  on,  then.  I'm  ready." 

They  walked  down  the  stairs  side  by  side. 
Through  the  wide  entrance  to  the  front  lounge 
Dick  caught  sight  of  five  or  six  men  standing  in 
a  closed  group.  None  of  them  looked  up  or 
turned,  but  a  youngster  who  was  sitting  apart, 
with  his  knee  thrown  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
one  foot  beating  time  nervously,  sprang  up  and 
hurried  into  the  hall. 

"Dick,"  he  said,  confronting  Page,  "tell  me  it's 
all  a  damned  lie."  He  had  his  hand  half  extended, 
waiting. 

Dick's  smile  suddenly  brightened,  but  he  did 
not  take  the  half-proffered  hand.  "You'll  have 
to  think  it  out  for  yourself,  Harry,"  he  said  in 
a  low,  steady  voice,  "but  thanks  just  the  same." 

They  left  the  youngster  standing  there,  his 
brows  drawn  tightly  in  a  puzzled  frown,  and 
stepped  into  the  Rackhouse  roadster.  Dick  drew 
up  at  a  quiet  restaurant  around  the  corner,  where 
they  telephoned  Ruth  and  then  lunched  hastily 
and  in  almost  unbroken  silence.  Within  an  hour 
and  a  half  of  leaving  the  club  they  were  at  Mrs. 
Ardsley's  country  home.  Ruth  received  them  her- 


226  RACKHOUSE 

self  and  led  them  through  cool,  shaded  rooms 
and  the  veranda  to  a  secluded  spot  in  the  garden 
where  a  Gloucester  hammock  and  chairs  were 
hidden  in  a  nook  of  shrubbery  open  only  toward 
the  Sound. 

"No  one  will  bother  us  here,"  she  said,  as 
they  seated  themselves,  and  then  she  turned  to 
Page.  <lWhatisit,  Dick?" 

"Oh,  nothing  so  awfully  important,"  said  Dick. 
He  looked  at  her  without  diffidence,  but  still  with 
the  eyes  of  the  unashamed  worshiper,  as  if  the 
world  might  take  it  for  granted  that  he  thought 
her  the  most  wonderful  of  all  women  and  wel 
come.  She  was  the  pillar  of  strength  to  which 
clung  all  his  illusions.  He  had  never  asked  any 
thing  of  her  for  himself  except  that  she  continue 
to  be,  to  move  somewhere  within  sight  of  his  body 
and  spirit  and  soul  like — well — like  a  liaison 
officer — lifting  them,  holding  them  together  in  the 
face  of  life's  muddy  tide.  Dark  haired,  dark 
browed,  eyes  unfathomably  blue;  dressed  not  in 
billowing  fabrics,  but  in  softly  falling  lines;  serene 
of  countenance  until  the  fires  of  emotion  stirred 
her  face  to  eloquent  expression — Ruth  was  to  him 
the  impersonal  yet  living  testimony  to  eternal 
romance. 

"It's  as  important  as  any  one  thing  can  be," 
broke  in  Rockman.  "Ruth,  haven't  you  seen  this?" 

He  held  out  the  tragic  clipping  toward  her,  but 
she  waved  it  away.  "Of  course  I've  seen  it,  Rock- 
sie."  She  turned  again  to  Page.  "How  hateful, 
Dick!"  continued  her  low  voice  of  sympathy. 


RACKHOUSE  227 

"How  hateful  of  them  to  do  a  thing  like  that,  to 
write  about  it,  make  it  public " 

"Them!"  exclaimed  Rockman.  "What  about 
Roddy — Captain  Roderic  Norris?  Ruth,  do  you 
know  what  this  means?  Do  you  realize  that 
Dick's  name  is  anathema  to  more  men  than  he 
ever  knew  to  speak  to,  that  he's  a  pariah,  and 
that  if  he  doesn't  pitch  in  to  clear  himself  he'll 
be  barred  from  every  club  in  New  York?" 

"What  would  he  have  to  do  to  clear  himself?" 
asked  Ruth,  unhurriedly. 

"Tell  the  truth — nothing  but  the  truth — backed 
by  your  word  and  mine." 

"You  mean  put  the  blame  on  Roddy,  where  it 
belongs,"  said  Ruth  after  a  pause,  "a  greater 
blame  and  a  far  blacker  shame  than  has  fallen  on 
Dick?  Justice — bare  justice.  There's  no  other 
way  clear,  you  think?" 

"None,"  said  Rockman,  "and  if  Dick  doesn't 
do  it,  I  will." 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet.  "You  will  not"  he 
almost  shouted.  "What  do  you  know  about 
Roddy?"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  tone.  "Where 
he's  been,  what  he's  been  doing,  or  what  road 
he  travels?  Nothing.  You  know  nothing.  I've 
been  with  him.  I've  seen  him  take  things — big 
things — by  the  throat,  one  after  another,  and 
choke  them  to  their  knees.  Who  was  the  fool 
that  gave  away  the  monkey  clew?  I  was.  He 
told  me  then  I  had  bought  it,  and  if  he'll  let  me 
I'll  saddle  the  blame  from  here  to  Jericho.  He's 
at  the  Royal  now.  Go  and  look  at  him,  you  two. 


228  RACKHOUSE 

Perhaps  you  won't  learn  anything;  perhaps  you 
will.  I  don't  know  much  myself,  but  I  tell  you 
that  if  he's  on  the  road  to  hell,  I'll  go  with  him 
every  step  of  the  way.  Do  you  hear  that?  Every 
step  of  the  way." 

Ruth  arose  quickly  and  threw  her  arm  across 
Dick's  shoulders.  Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and 
when  she  tried  to  speak  she  could  only  choke  out 
the  words,  "Oh,  Dick!" 

He  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  hers  and  pressed 
it  against  his  arm.  "That's  the  way  I  feel,  Ruth," 
he  said,  more  calmly.  "I'll  go  anywhere  with 
him  or  for  him.  All  I  want  from  you  and  from 
Rocksie  is  to  keep  your  mouths  tight  shut.  It's 
my  game.  Let  me  play  it  out.  Let's  all  sit  down 
again.  I've  got  a  yarn  to  tell  you  that  will  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end." 


Chapter  XII 

FOR  an  hour  he  held  them  entranced  with  a 
picturization  of  the  mushroom  growth  of 
Rackhcuse  Incorporated.  He  did  it  with  splashes 
of  color.  Gunmen  and  drivers  pushed  their  way 
through  his  words  like  flesh  and  blood.  Jimmie 
became  an  intaglio,  a  gray  profile  of  piratical  crime 
engraved  by  a  master  hand  in  the  milky  mists  of 
a  crystalline  moonstone.  Bits  of  news  of  Bronk 
and  Shandy  dotted  the  story,  punctuating  incred 
ible  and  brutal  romance  with  the  familiar  com 
mas  of  everyday  life. 

Then,  as  he  lost  himself  in  the  joy  of  the  amaz 
ing  narrative,  Dick's  eyes  grew  bright  in  a  fever 
ish  visualization  of  events  too  near  to  have  ac 
quired  the  softened  contours  and  the  glamour  of 
time  and  distance.  He  rose  almost  by  a  leap  to 
depiction  of  a  thunderous  wave  of  crashing  ad 
venture,  and  upon  its  crest  he  managed  to  let 
them  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  monumental  figure, 
Blackie  by  name,  riding  the  storm  and  driving  it 
to  his  own  ends  by  the  merciless  flail  of  his  bared 
fist. 

"It's  unbelievable,"  murmured  Rockman,  "all 
of  it."  But  he  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  knows 
himself  to  have  heard  the  naked  truth. 

229 


23o  RACKHOUSE 

Ruth  sat  on  in  the  tense  pose  she  had  assumed 
at  the  very  start  of  Dick's  vivid  story.  The  taper 
ing  fingers  of  her  strong  hands  were  tightly  locked 
across  her  knee  and  her  brows  were  drawn  to 
consideration  of  the  stranger,  Blackie.  Some 
where  buried  in  this  hulk  of  a  triumphant  bully, 
she  was  thinking,  was  the  soul  of  Roddy  Norris, 
of  the  smiling  Roddy  Norris  she  had  held  so 
lightly  and  so  long.  Would  it  ever  again  unwrap 
itself — come  out  into  the  light?  One  thought 
tormented  her.  All  these  despicable  qualities  of 
misguided  courage  and  brutal  mastery  which  had 
been  so  mysteriously  and  swiftly  evolved  were 
massive.  They  were  like  tumbled  blocks  of 
masonry.  If  that  were  so,  how  pitifully  inade 
quate  she  had  been  as  the  builder  intrusted  with 
the  making  of  a  man  out  of  Roddy  Norris ! 

Yet,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  she  felt  a 
return  of  pride  into  her  veins  as  she  reviewed  and 
absorbed  Dick's  story  in  its  totality.  It  was  a 
tale  of  men  and  for  men.  Not  once  had  that 
pulchritudinous  yet  wholly  unlovely  doll,  Gladys, 
whom  she  had  glimpsed  on  the  night  of  the  near- 
fracas  at  the  Blue  Heron  Inn,  bobbed  to  the  sur 
face  of  the  narrative.  Not  even  the  girl  Millie 
with  her  inexplicable  suggestion  of  hidden  fires 
had  had  the  honor  or  the  shame  of  sharing  the 
swirling  caldron  which  had  lifted  the  dubious  con 
queror,  Blackie,  above  a  tempestuous  horizon. 

As  though  he  read  the  name  within  her  mind, 
Page  arose  and  said,  "Well,  I've  got  to  get  back 
to  Blackie." 


RACKHOUSE  231 

"You  mean  Roddy,  don't  you?"  said  Ruth, 
hastily,  and  with  a  vague  impulse  of  appeal.  The 
question  sounded  childishly  ineffectual  to  her  own 
ears,  as  if  she  hoped  to  bring  back  Roddy  simply 
by  saying  and  hearing  his  name. 

Dick's  forehead  wrinkled  and  he  cocked  his 
head  to  one  side,  giving  her  question  deliberate 
consideration.  "No,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "I 
meant  to  say  Blackie." 

He  returned  to  the  Royal  alone.  Ostensibly  he 
came  merely  to  report  that  he  was  about  to  start 
back  to  Rackhouse,  but  deep  in  his  mind  was  a 
question  only  half  asked  even  of  himself.  He 
found  Norris  in  bed,  propped  against  pillows, 
neither  reading  nor  smoking,  but  picking  at  the 
covers  with  his  well  hand  and  apparently  staring 
at  nothing.  As  Dick  entered  the  room  the  vacant 
gaze  became  suddenly  vitalized  and  shot  one 
swift,  shrewd  look  at  Dick's  smiling  lips — a  look 
which  learned  nothing  but  told  volumes. 

"He  knows,"  said  Dick  to  himself.  "He's  read 
the  clipping." 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  he  kept  his  lips  and 
his  eyes  smiling.  Roddy  knew!  Roddy  Norris 
had  done  this  thing — this  horrible  thing — to  a 
man  who  had  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
him  through  thick  and  thin !  But  no — that  wasn't 
right.  Not  Roddy,  but  Blackie  had  done  it.  Im 
mediately  the  wKole  futile  transaction  assumed 
totally  different  proportions,  and,  led  by  a  double 
desire  to  puzzle  the  problem  out  at  leisure  and 
also  to  avoid  putting  his  powers  of  dissimulation 


232  RACKHOUSE 

to  too  great  a  strain,  Dick  cut  his  visit  short,  left 
the  apartment,  and  started  back  to  Rackhouse. 

All  that  afternoon  Norris  lay  struggling  des 
perately  not  to  think.  He  knew  he  could  not  read, 
and  did  not  try.  So  hard  pressed  was  he  for  a 
hook  on  which  to  hang  his  thoughts,  that  he 
fastened  his  attention  on  the  movements  of  Bronk 
and  an  emergency  chambermaid  as  they  passed 
from  dining  room  to  library  and  from  library  to 
living  room,  putting  his  material  house  in  order. 
He  followed  them  step  by  step,  but  to  each  mental 
move  came  memories,  insistent,  singly  and  by 
cohorts,  trooping  out  of  the  past  on  padded  feet. 
He  summoned  Bronk-and  gave  him  orders  to  go 
out  in  search  of  Millie  and  Gladys.  He  told  him 
not  only  their  addresses,  but  supplied  him  with  a 
list  of  their  usual  haunts. 

"Take  a  cab,"  he  ordered  in  the  Blackie  man 
ner,  "and  stay  out  until  you  find  them." 

Upon  Bronk's  reluctant  obedience  and  depar 
ture,  he  sank  back  and  closed  his  eyes  in  an  effort 
to  shut  out  assailing  recollections.  It  was  no  use. 
He  could  hear  the  chambermaid  in  the  living  room 
and  his  ears  seemed  to  drag  him  there.  He  pic 
tured  that  room  as  it  had  been  on  the  crucial 
night  of  so  long  ago.  Rockman,  Page  and  Cul- 
lom,  Ruth  and  even  Bronk,  moved  there  strangely 
disembodied,  like  shadows  of  marionettes  thrown 
large  upon  a  screen.  All  faded  away  but  Ruth. 
She  stayed.  He  got  up,  slipped  a  dressing  gown 
over  one  shoulder,  and  moved  to  the  couch  in 
the  living  room.  The  maid  withdrew.  Lying 


RACKHOUSE  233 

there  with  eyes  tightly  shut,  he  still  saw  Ruth, 
heard  her  voice  coming  muffled  across  the  months. 

"I'm  outside  myself  now,"  she  was  saying,  "and 
so  are  you.  I'm  in  the  air  of  these  rooms  and  it 
seems  to  quiver.  I  look  down.  I  say:  'That's 
Roderic  Norris.  How  strange  he  looks !  Some 
thing  is  alive  within  him,  struggling.  And  that's 
Ruth  Ardsley.  How  her  eyes  shine  !  How  white 
are  her  arms!  How  her  heart  must  be  beating, 
to  make  her  breast  rise  and  fall  so  fasti'  ' 

"Ruth!"  cried  Norris,  aloud. 

"Yes,  Roddy.     How  did  you  guess?" 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  became  instantly  awake 
and  wholly  alive  to  the  moment.  Ruth  Ardsley 
stood  before  him  in  the  flesh,  her  cheeks  aflame, 
her  eyes  alight  with  happiness  that  he  should  have 
been  holding  her  in  the  forefront  of  his  thoughts, 
had  felt  her  coming,  recognized  her  step.  She 
could  not  know  that  her  actual  presence  had  ban 
ished  all  the  trooping  memories  of  which  she  her 
self  was  the  foremost  and  most  troublesome.  By 
giving  him  a  pressing  and  tangible  situation  with 
which  to  deal,  she  lifted  him  bodily  and  spiritually 
out  of  turmoil,  so  that  his  face  and  all  his  de 
meanor  attained  suddenly  to  that  atmosphere  of 
calm  which  had  awakened  in  Dick  a  vague  associa 
tion  with  the  Great  Sphinx  of  Gizeh. 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  welcomed  her  with 
out  effusion,  but  still  without  constraint.  Strangely 
enough,  she  felt  neither  repulsed  by  his  unemo 
tional  reception  of  her  nor  embarrassed  by  recol 
lection  of  the  access  of  shame  in  which  she  had  last 


RACKHOUSE 

fled  from  this  room.  There  was  something  in 
the  changed  face  of  the  man  she  loved  that  ar 
rested  her  mind  quite  independently  of  thoughts 
of  herself  as  part  of  an  essential  equation.  Some 
thing  in  its  rugged,  granitelike  expression  aroused 
an  avid  curiosity  such  as  Roddy,  in  all  the  common 
moments  of  their  lives,  had  never  once  inspired. 

"Does  your  arm  hurt  you?"  she  asked,  avoid 
ing  repetition  of  his  name. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied,  measuring  her  loveli 
ness  with  calculating  eyes.  "Sit  down." 

Ruth  had  come  to  the  Royal  upon  an  impulse. 
Dick's  stand  in  the  face  of  the  trouble  which  had 
fallen  so  unjustly  upon  him  had  stirred  her  gener 
ous  nature  to  the  depths.  That  he  should  have 
taken  the  course  he  had  did  not  puzzle  her  in  the 
least.  She  could  understand  that  sort  of  sacrifice ; 
it  was  the  kind  of  thing  she  herself  would  glory 
in  doing  for  any  cause  which  did  not  belittle  the 
giver.  The  question  which  came  first  to  her  mind 
was  as  to  this  very  point.  What  had  made  it 
seem  worth  while  to  Dick  to  endure  calumny,  dis 
grace,  and  ostracism  rather  than  clear  himself  by 
placing  the  guilt  where  it  belonged? 

"Go  and  look  at  him,  you  two,"  he  had  said. 
"Perhaps  you  won't  learn  anything;  perhaps  you 
will,"  and  she  had  come,  but  without  Rockman. 
He  had  offered  to  accompany  her,  but  there  had 
been  something  about  the  set  of  his  jaw  and  the 
compression  of  his  thin  lips  that  had  warned  her 
against  including  him  in  this  first  visit  of  discovery. 

"No,  Rocksie,  don't  come,"  she  had  said.    "All 


RACKHOUSE  235 

you  can  see  is  that  Roddy  has  done  one  inexpli 
cable  thing  after  another,  ending  up  with  this  out 
rage  against  Dick." 

"Well,"  cried  Rockman,  "what  more  could  he 
do  short  of  murder?  And — well — that's  funny. 
He's  done  that,  too.  Murder.  Why  wait?  What 
more  is  there  to  wait  for?  What  else  is  there  to 
see?" 

Ruth's  brows  drew  together  in  the  little  frown 
of  concentration  which  was  threatening  to  become 
habitual  with  her.  "All  through  these  lonely 
weeks  and  months,"  she  said,  finally,  "my  mind  has 
given  up  Roddy  time  and  time  again,  and  then  one 
little  fact  has  cried  out,  'Unjust'  I" 

"What  is  it?  I'd  certainly  like  to  share  that 
miracle  of  intuitive  conviction." 

"It's  this,"  continued  Ruth,  "the  little  fact  that 
we've  been  too  stupid  to  find  out  why,  why,  why! 
Why  did  he  do  it?  Why  did  he  change — not  in 
months,  but  in  a  night?  No,  in  a  moment." 

She  hesitated,  as  she  had  often  hesitated  before 
about  telling  Rocksie  of  the  way  she  had  flung 
herself  into  Roddy's  arms  and  been  suddenly, 
shamefully  repulsed  and  denied,  but  her  instinct 
had  led  her  away  from  the  confession.  No  man 
but  the  one  has  a  right  to  know  of  such  an  inter 
view;  no  man  but  the  one  could  avoid  misreading 
it  and  finding  in  the  very  act  of  surrender  the  germ 
of  sudden  disunion  and  repudiation.  No,  never. 
Not  to  her  dying  day  would  she  disclose  to  any 
one,  however  intimate,  that  moment  of  ecstasy 
with  its  aftermath  of  stinging  bitterness.  Her 


236  RACKHOUSE 

heart  was  beginning  to  whisper  what  her  head  had 
not  yet  been  able  to  fathom,  that  the  Roddy  of 
old  had  been  at  his  greatest  when  striking  the 
blow  at  her  pride. 

"Do  you  remember  what  Dick  said  to  me  over 
the  phone,"  she  went  on,  "the  night  we  went  out 
to  the  Blue  Heron?  He  said  that,  not  knowing 
why  Roddy  broke  with  himself  and  the  world,  if 
we  didn't  dig  till  we  found  out,  we  wouldn't  be 
friends,  but  just  three  kinds  of  quitters.  That's 
one  thing  about  Dick,  Rocksie.  He  may  be 
flighty,  mad,  apparently  brainless  in  everything 
else,  but  he  has  a  way  of  fastening  his  teeth  into 
friendship,  shutting  his  eyes  tight  and — and  hold 
ing.  I — I  love  him  for  it.  Don't  you?" 

Rockman  touched  her  knee  understandingly. 
"I  do,  Ruth ;  indeed  I  do  and  you're  right.  That's 
a  facer  for  me  and  a  lesson.  I  won't  come  up  this 
time.  I'll  go  off  by  myself  in  a  corner  and  think. 
You've  given  me  a  nut  to  crack  and  I'm  going  to 
get  busy  on  it  and  forget  everything  else." 

Fresh  from  this  conversation,  Ruth  could  hold 
heart  and  emotions  in  subjection  to  her  level  head, 
but  in  spite  of  Dick's  veiled  warning,  "Perhaps 
you  won't  see  anything;  perhaps  you  will,"  she 
was  totally  unprepared  for  the  quality  of  change 
she  found  in  Roddy  when  the  presence  of  the  maid 
in  the  hall  had  permitted  her  to  come  upon  him 
unannounced. 

Sitting  half  reclined  against  pillows  on  a  long, 
narrow,  mahogany  sofa  at  one  side  of  the  living 
room,  his  body  seemed  to  have  acquired  new  pro- 


RACKHOUSE  237 

portions,  to  be  molded  on  broader,  more  solid 
lines,  and  the  same  was  true  of  his  face.  It  ex 
hibited  every  element  of  strength  save  one,  the 
repose  which  is  the  keynote  of  any  rounded  great 
ness.  Noting  its  absence,  sensing  its  implication 
of  a  hidden  death  grip,  Ruth's  own  words  came 
back  to  her  as  lately  they  had  come  to  Norris 
across  the  months — like  an  echo. 

"That's  Roderic  Norris.  How  strange  he 
looks !  Something  is  alive  within  him,  struggling !" 

Her  lips  parted  and  she  was  about  to  speak 
when  the  door  opened  and  Bronk  ushered  Millie 
and  Gladys  into  the  room.  Instantly  Norris's 
face  assumed  a  restful  calm,  while  his  eyes  grew 
brilliant  and  active.  He  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
He  seemed  as  aloof  from  conventional  introduc 
tions,  excuses,  or  any  of  the  amenities  by  which 
a  host  might  be  expected  to  gloss  over  a  trying 
situation  as  the  snows  upon  a  mountain  top  are 
serene  above  sweating  mortals  in  the  valley.  He 
had  become  quite  simply  an  interested  and  per 
haps  a  cruel  observer. 

Millie  stood  tensely  one  step  within  the  door 
way,  and  stared  at  Ruth.  Gladys  pushed  by  her, 
hesitated  almost  imperceptibly,  and  then  came  for 
ward  with  flippant  assurance. 

"Hello,  B Jackie  I    Who's  your  friend?" 

Norris  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  her 
words;  nor  did  Ruth.  After  the  first  shock  of  the 
unexpected  encounter,  instinct  awoke  within  her, 
telling  her  that  the  little  Miss  Gaylord,  brazenly 
pretty,  was  a  mere  pawn,  and  that  the  battle — if 


238  RACKHOUSE 

there  was  to  be  a  battle — was  between  herself  and 
the  tall,  ungainly  girl  with  flushed  face,  mottled 
cheeks,  and  suddenly  glowing  eyes  who  stood  gaz 
ing  so  intently  from  across  the  room.  With  the 
realization  that  the  strange  girl,  in  spite  of  her 
painfully  unattractive  appearance,  was  possessed 
of  some  subtle  potency  which  made  her  a  doughty 
opponent,  Ruth  was  consumed  by  a  curiosity  which 
threatened  to  overtax  all  her  powers  of  percep 
tion.  Added  to  the  mystery  of  Roddy,  friend  of 
her  girlhood  grown  inexplicable,  this  new  element 
of  obscure  forces  in  action  aroused  her  to  the 
alternative  of  either  keeping  her  head  or  going 
down  once  more  to  defeat  through  lack  of  applied 
intelligence. 

She  arose  and  went  toward  Millie.  "Your 
name  is  Millie,  isn't  it?  Mine  is  Ruth — Ruth 
Ardsley.  I  wish  we  could  be  friends." 

"You  do,  do  you?"  replied  Millie.  "Well, 
beggars  is  choosers  this  time  and  I  don't  want  no 
truck  with  you.  Me  and " 

"Sit  down." 

It  was  Norris  who  had  spoken  without  raising 
his  voice  and  with  apparent  apathy,  but  imme 
diately  Millie's  demeanor  underwent  a  complete 
change.  She  did  not  accept  Ruth's  proffer  of 
friendship,  but  she  obeyed  Blackie's  injunction 
both  in  body  and  in  spirit.  She  came  forward, 
pushed  Gladys  into  a  chair  at  his  side,  seated  her 
self  somewhat  farther  away,  and  set  her  lips  in 
a  fixed  smile.  It  was  as  though  she  had  been 
called  upon  to  go  through  an  ordeal  and  was  in- 


RACKHOUSE  239 

tent  upon  acceding  with  certain  reservations  to  the 
voice  of  the  master. 

"Me  and  Gladys  come  because  Blackie  sent  for 
us,"  she  continued,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  fires  an 
experimental  shot,  a  range  finder.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  he's  shaved  to-day.  See  if  he's  shaved,  Glad. 
Feel  his  face." 

Gladys  needed  no  further  urging.  She  laid  her 
soft  hands  on  Norris's  cheeks,  drew  her  fingers 
lightly  across  them,  and  then  pinched  his  lips. 
"Ye-ah,  he's  shaved.  Haven't  you,  Blackie?" 

Norris  did  not  answer.  He  had  made  no  move 
to  prevent  the  caress.  His  gaze  remained  fixed 
with  a  peculiar  intensity  on  Ruth's  face,  as  though 
he  welcomed  the  chance  to  study  the  effect  on  her 
of  so  crude  a  familiarity  in  public.  As  she  paled 
without  relinquishing  the  smile  which  she  had  worn 
determinedly  since  rising  to  greet  Millie,  his  eyes 
narrowed  shrewdly.  He  measured  her,  studied 
her  as  impersonally  as  one  might  examine  a  lovely 
painting  offered  for  sale  or  a  fortress  prepared 
and  waiting  for  attack.  Strangely  enough,  his 
attitude  was  so  calmly  purposeful,  so  massive  in 
its  detachment  from  affable  supplications  or  the 
ruses  of  a  courtier,  that  it  gave  no  offense.  While 
it  was  plainly  calculating,  it  belittled  neither  its 
object  nor  himself.  It  was  as  though  he  said, 
scornfully,  "Well,  get  your  fists  or  your  finger 
nails  or  your  hatpin  ready.  I'm  going  to  take 
you." 

The  look  was  deliberately  acquisitive  while  it 
rested  on  Ruth,  but  when  it  shifted  its  direction 

16 


240  RACKHOUSE 

to  Millie  it  turned  frankly  curious,  as  though  he, 
too,  were  mystified  by  the  obscure  forces  screened 
behind  the  girl's  enigmatic  deportment.  He  had 
never  fathomed  Millie.  Since  the  night  when  she 
had  tacitly  offered  herself  for  physical  inspection 
and  been  found  wanting  on  all  counts,  she  had 
never  once  obtruded  her  person  upon  him,  not 
even  in  the  momentary  intimacies  of  the  dancing 
floor.  Yet  he  knew,  and  Ruth  knew,  that  in  some 
subtle  fashion  this  girl  who  gloried  in  the  mere 
appearance  of  being  his  complacent  chattel  was 
laying  possessive  hands  upon  him. 

To  Ruth  no  less  than  to  himself  she  became 
the  center  around  which  pivoted  the  warring  ele 
ments  of  the  incongruous  gathering,  and  it  was 
inevitable  that  before  many  more  moments  passed 
she  should  betray  herself  not  to  the  man,  but  to 
the  intuition  of  her  own  sex. 

"Blackie  certainly  looks  like  a  sick  man.  Don't 
he,  Glad.  See  if  he's  got  fever.  Put  your  hand 
on  his  forehead." 

Gladys  leaned  forward,  and  her  supple  body 
rested  its  warm  weight  on  Norris's  well  shoulder. 
She  laid  her  fingers  soothingly  on  his  forehead 
and  brought  her  lovely  face  close  to  his  eyes.  Her 
lips  moved  in  words  whispered  below  her  breath. 

At  Millie's  second  admonition  to  her  companion 
to  lay  hands  on  Norris,  Ruth  swerved  her  eyes 
quickly  to  the  small  person  of  Miss  Gaylord, 
whom  she  had  thus  far  ignored,  and,  perceiving 
the  miniature  perfection  of  every  contour  of  limb 
and  feature,  she  suddenly  saw  a  great  light.  In  its 


RACKHOUSE  24! 

blaze  Millie  stood  revealed  as  a  master  tactician 
or  a  flowing  river  of  unexpectedly  treacherous 
depths,  or,  better  still,  an  inspired  cuttlefish  intent 
upon  its  own  ends. 

Without  knowing  how  she  knew  it,  Ruth,  as  is 
the  way  of  woman,  still  knew  that  she  knew.  She 
knew  that  Millie  loved  Norris  with  the  unlimited 
devotion  that  is  commonly  supposed  to  lay  an  in 
delible  stain  upon  the  donor,  but  which,  even  when 
linked  to  degradation,  is  saved  from  total  repug 
nance  by  the  sublimity  of  any  total  and  unquestion 
ing  sacrifice.  Ruth  was  even  conscious  of  a  sud 
den  access  of  admiration  as  she  divined  without  the 
aid  of  all  its  steps  of  progression  the  whole  of 
Millie's  aim. 

Her  conclusion  was  as  accurate  as  if  she  had 
held  every  thread  in  her  hand.  What  had  once 
come  to  her  as  an  elusive  suspicion  now  became 
suddenly  concreted.  Millie  was  not  abject — far 
from  it.  If,  aided  by  the  illicit  associations  of 
fradulent  begging,  of  contraband  wealth,  and  of 
the  tempting  bait  of  Gladys's  body,  played  with 
the  skill  and  watchfulness  of  a  determined  angler, 
she  could  drag  Norris  down  and  down  to  the  level 
of  her  own  inconsequence  and  make  him  ultimately 
a  thing  of  little  worth,  she  might  yet  attain  to  an 
ultimate,  wholly  satisfying  possession  of  the  husk 
which  all  other  women  would  scorn. 

Fresh  under  the  spell  of  illumination,  Ruth 
turned  curious  eyes  on  Norris.  Millie  she  con 
ceded  to  be  a  foe  worthy  of  anyone's  tried  metal  I 
What  of  Roddy?  How  far  had  he  gone  along 


242  RACKHOUSE 

that  road?  In  how  much  did  he  share  the  stain 
of  gift  and  giver?  Was  he  still  worth  fighting 
for?  To  her  inquiring  gaze  he  opposed  an  in 
scrutable  countenance  which  nevertheless  gave  the 
impression  of  the  mask  of  strength.  Here  was  a 
man  she  did  not  know,  said  her  thoughts  to  her 
self,  and  immediately  added,  a  man  worth  know 
ing.  She  turned  her  eyes  quickly  on  Millie  and 
surprised  in  the  girl's  face  a  tremor  of  fear,  an 
instantaneous  lapse  of  courage,  a  confession  of 
still  possible  defeat. 

Swiftly  Ruth  arose.  She  nodded  a  farewell  to 
Norris  and  the  two  girls,  and  withdrew.  For  once 
she  felt  she  had  come  out  victor  over  Millie  by 
the  bare  margin  of  that  glimpsed  tremor  of  fear, 
and  she  wished  to  be  alone,  to  think,  to  plan,  to 
choose  between  rapier  and  saber.  But  before  she 
reached  the  door  she  heard  Millie's  voice,  a  little 
high  and  shrill,  as  though  aimed  at  her  departing 
ears.  "I  got  to  go,  too,  Glad.  You  stay  here 
alone  with  Blackie  till  I  come  back — even  if  it's 
late." 

Already  safe  in  the  obscurity  of  the  hall,  Ruth 
flushed  and  raised  her  hand  swiftly  to  her  breast. 
That  shot  had  hurt,  the  dart  had  struck  home. 
All  the  equanimity  which  she  had  worn  like  a  pro 
tecting  cloak  through  the  encounter  with  the  new 
Roddy  and  his  new  friends  fell  from  her.  Her 
lips  quivered,  trembled,  almost  broke  into  the  con 
tortion  of  tears.  She  wanted  Roddy,  her  old 
Roddy.  Wherever  he  was,  she  loved  Roddy. 
Then,  remembering  the  tremor  of  fear  in  Millie's 


RACKHOUSE  243 

face,  her  shoulders  suddenly  straightened,  her 
mouth  took  on  a  twisted  smile,  and  her  feet 
stepped  out  firmly  as  though  set  upon  a  marked 
road. 

Gladys  employed  her  time  to  such  good  purpose 
that  on  the  following  day  Norris  bought  an  im 
ported  car  at  $15,000  and  engaged  a  driver,  all 
for  the  purpose  of  making  an  excursion  into  the 
country.  Gladys  went  with  him,  in  a  measure 
displacing  the  pillows  of  the  sofa  and  of  the  ride 
in  from  Rackhouse.  They  examined  the  small 
dower  house  of  the  Behren  place  which  was  still 
to  let,  and  through  an  agent  Norris  began  to 
negotiate  for  its  lease.  The  transaction  gave  him 
an  inspiration.  He  did  not  lease  the  lodge;  he 
bought  it,  and  with  it  the  entire  estate,  at  a  sac 
rifice  figure,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  By  that 
single  move  he  cached  over  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  of  his  burden  of  easy  money.  Through 
the  same  agent  he  offered  the  great  house  for 
immediate  occupancy,  and  within  a  week  had 
leased  it  at  a  fair  rental  for  the  remainder  of  the 
summer  season. 


Chapter  XIII 

^  I  ^HE  lessee  proved  to  be  one  of  those  pic- 
-*•  turesque  figures  which  crop  up  from  time  to 
time,  oozing  with  wealth,  out  of  oil-field,  mining- 
camp  or  wild-cat  trade,  to  trample  across  the 
foothills  of  society  and  eventually  either  scale  the 
peak,  break  a  neck,  or  fall  pantingly  behind  the 
traveling  range  of  the  public  eye.  His  given  name 
was  Dennis,  but  he  signed  his  checks  D.  Wardock 
Tempest,  and  was  familiarly  known  by  a  rapidly 
widening  circle  of  house  guests  as  Storm  Tempest, 
the  week-end-party  king.  He  made  his  start  to 
ward  the  title  by  inviting  whomever  he  met,  irre 
spective  of  calling,  profession,  or  social  standing, 
to  forgather  at  his  new  abode,  and  at  each  six- 
day  interval  weeded  out  the  undesirables  with  a 
ruthlessness  which  was  in  itself  a  distinction.  In 
a  manner  of  speaking  he  climbed  with  seven-league 
boots  and  a  backward  kick  at  each  upward  step. 
Under  normal  conditions  he  would  have  been 
hopelessly  handicapped  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
single,  but  the  frenzy  for  home  entertainment 
with  free  liquor  and  freer  morals  which  was 
sweeping  the  country  made  of  his  bachelorhood 
a  decided  advantage.  He  was  constantly  being 
amazed  at  the  size  and  rarity  of  the  fish  from  the 

244 


RACKHOUSE  245 

preserved  ponds  of  the  elect  which  began  to  plumb 
into  his  heavily  baited  net,  and  when  the  day  ar 
rived  which  saw  a  clubman  of  his  casual  acquaint 
ance,  a  name  famous  in  sport,  finance,  and  lineage, 
telephone  over  for  permission  to  bring  a  party  to 
"see  his  place,"  he  rightly  felt  that  he  had  attained 
to  the  dignity  and  prerogatives  of  an  institution. 

The  contrast  between  the  great  establishment 
on  the  hill  and  its  modest  dower  house  ensconced 
amid  vines  near  the  park  gates  was  so  extreme  as 
to  amount  to  the  paradox  of  a  diverging  parallel. 
Storm  Tempest  aimed  at  the  friends  whom  Norris 
had  discarded,  and  Norris  at  those  who  would 
have  attached  themselves  to  the  week-end-party 
king  as  greedily  and  securely  as  a  leech  to  a  fat 
bare  leg.  Blackie,  cut  off  from  the  consuming 
affairs  of  Rackhouse  Incorporated,  found  him 
self  in  torment  save  when  surrounded  by  Millie, 
her  pilot  fish  in  the  person  of  Gladys,  and  a  slowly 
growing  group  of  their  satellites,  impressed  one 
by  one  to  enliven  the  all-night  sprees  of  dancing 
and  drinking  which  were  his  only  sure  road  to  ex 
haustion  and  peaceful  slumber. 

His  daytime  intervals  were  taken  up  for  a  while 
with  studying  the  stock  market,  profit-taking  on 
the  securities  which  Jimmie  had  bought  for  a  rise 
with  uncanny  foresight,  and  reinvesting  the  re 
sults  of  his  liquidation  in  tax-immune  bonds  to  the 
lawful  limit,  and  preferred  stocks  paying  a  high 
rate  of  interest.  By  the  time  this  operation  was 
completed  to  his  satisfaction  his  arm,  though  still 
stiff,  was  out  of  its  sling,  and  he  had  returned  to 


246  RACKHOUSE 

Rackhouse,  but  failed  to  find  there  the  complete 
solace  he  had  every  reason  to  expect.  Even  dur 
ing  the  three  weeks  which  elapsed  before  his  first 
reappearance,  the  kaleidoscopic  career  of  Rack- 
house  Incorporated  had  taken  two  or  three  turns, 
so  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  struck  him  as 
being  strange — almost  unrecognizable.  He  felt 
like  an  old-boy  returning  alone  to  school  four  years 
after  graduation.  One  of  the  contributory  causes 
to  this  result  was  the  sudden  emergence  of  Dick 
Page  from  the  doldrums  of  lay  brotherhood. 

"Blackie,"  said  Jimmie,  when  making  his  report 
on  progress  and  affairs  in  general,  "that  boy  Dick 
pecked  open  his  shell  and  popped  out  with  his 
wings  full  grown  and  spurs  three  inches  long. 
Sailed  into  Rackhouse  like  a  whirlwind.  Not  only 
the  mess  room,  mind  you,  but  the  stock  records, 
office,  and  all  the  fixings.  He  opened  an  office  in 
town,  got  in  a  couple  of  lady  stenographers  and 
a  lady  bookkeeper.  Says  it's  a  mistake  women 
can't  keep  their  mouths  shut,  especially  on  a  deal 
like  this.  Everything  in  the  outfit  is  coded  and 
card  indexed.  Then  he  said  our  reputation  was 
as  solid  as  anything  in  Bradstreet,  proved  it,  and 
is  getting  payments  in  advance  wherever  we 
haven't  a  solid  agent.  You  know  what  that  saves 
us  in  time  and  trouble.  Bonuses,  too.  He's  got 
a  system  of  bonuses  that  will  make  your  eyes 
pop." 

"Good  for  Dick,"  murmured  Norris.  He  could 
see  that  these  advances  were  logical,  that  they 
were  bound  to  come  to  anyone  intent  on  keeping 


RACKHOUSE  247 

up  with  Rackhouse.  "What's  the  bonus  idea?" 
he  asked. 

"Ten  per  cent  net  to  the  crew  on  every  de 
livered  load.  The  money  isn't  handed  to  them 
outright,  but  goes  into  a  fund  out  of  which  we 
reserve  the  right  to  collect  the  total  value  of 
any  shipment  lost." 

"Clever,"  said  Norris,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
appreciation  of  the  completeness  of  the  scheme. 

"Clever  isn't  the  word,  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie. 
"It's  wiped  out  worry.  I  don't  have  to  tell  you 
the  boys  haven't  lost  a  single  load  under  the  new 
regime  and  aren't  going  to.  If  they  should,  it's 
their  own  funeral.  The  fund  is  so  big  already 
that  we  can  safely  begin  crediting  their  bank 
accounts  with  actual  cash.  It  makes  you  and  me 
and  Dick,  too,  into  easy-going  supervisors,  and 
that  reminds  me.  What  about  Dick?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Norris,  quickly, 
his  mind  leaping  to  the  shameful  matter  of  the 
clipping. 

Jimmie  looked  at  him  narrowly.  "Oh,  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  that,"  he  said,  after  a  deliberate  pause. 
"I  was  thinking  of  the  matter  in  hand,  Blackie. 
Of  the  fact  that  Dick  hasn't  established  any 
bonuses  for  himself." 

"What  do  you  think  he  ought  to  have?" 

"One-third  interest  in  net  profits  from  to-day," 
replied  Jimmie,  promptly.  "He's  earning  it." 

For  a  long  moment  Norris  remained  silent, 
while  all  the  reasons  why  Dick  should  receive  the 
partnership  lined  themselves  up,  one  after  the 


248  RACKHOUSE 

other,  against  that  ignoble  force  within  him  which 
had  faced  disgrace  for  himself  and  brought  it 
upon  his  friend  rather  than  loose  its  hold  on  a 
paltry  $6,000.  So  genuine  was  the  struggle 
within  him  that  his  face  paled  and  his  jaws  set 
hard,  but  even  in  the  moment  of  mental  turmoil 
he  could  look  at  himself  from  without,  see  him 
self  at  grips  with  a  vague  demon  of  avarice, 
and  take  an  almost  vicarious  interest  in  the 
battle.  It  was  this  faculty  of  detachment  which 
saved  the  day  for  Dick.  Blackie  surrendered 
not  from  benevolence,  but  because,  like  Jimmie, 
he  had  the  brains  to  know  when  honesty  is  the 
best  policy. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  shortly. 

Jimmie  sprang  up  and  summoned  Page. 
"Dick,"  he  said,  "Blackie  and  I  have  decided  that 
you  have  earned  a  one-third  share  in  the  net 
profits  of  Rackhouse  Incorporated  from  to-day 
on.  Ha!  Shake  hands,  boy." 

Page  started  to  reach  out  his  hand,  and  then 
withdrew  it.  "One  minute,  Jimmie,"  he  said. 
"Give  me  a  minute.  I  don't  think  you  know  quite 
what  you're  saying.  The  net  profits  of  this  outfit 
have  been  running  well  over  three  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  a  month.  They  will  be  practically 
double  that  within  eight  weeks  at  the  rate  we're 
going.  I've  been  on  the  inside  of  the  books.  I'll 
let  you  withdraw  your  offer." 

"Dick,"  said  Jimmie,  "the  biggest  and  only  mis 
take  you've  made  since  you  took  hold  here  is  to 
think  that  you  know  one  little  thing  more  than  I 


RACKHOUSE  249 

do  about  Rackhouse  Incorporated.  The  offer 
stands.  Take  it  or  leave  it." 

Dick's  eyes  met  those  of  Norris  and  held  them; 
a  flush  crept  slowly  into  his  cheeks.  "What  do 
you  say,  Blackie?"  he  asked,  soberly.  It  was  not 
the  question  that  had  brought  the  color  to  his 
face,  but  the  thought  of  the  money  that  Roddy 
must  have  had  heaped  behind  him  when  $6,000 
would  have  saved  the  honor  of  Lieut.  Richard 
Page.  Well,  what  did  that  matter  now?  Could 
a  bootlegger  stand  on  a  point  of  honor?  He  re 
membered  wondering  if  brigandage  would  coarsen 
him  as  it  had  Norris.  He  didn't  feel  coarsened. 
What  had  saved  him?  Would  the  big  price  he 
was  on  the  point  of  taking  finally  turn  the  trick? 
He  was  brought  out  of  his  rapid  reverie  by 
Blackie's  voice  murmuring,  "I  say  the  deal  goes." 

The  general  effect  of  the  new  arrangement  was 
to  free  both  Jimmie  and  Norris  from  a  nerve- 
racking  attendance  to  business.  So  automatic  and 
effective  was  the  system  evolved  by  Dick  that  even 
he  could  absent  himself  for  an  occasional  evening 
with  little  fear  that  things  would  go  wrong  in  his 
absence.  Jimmie  profited  by  the  eased  condition 
of  affairs  to  make  frequent  visits  to  town  to  reor 
ganize  his  private  investments,  but  to  Norris 
leisure  brought  no  single  gain. 

He  was  tossed  like  a  shuttlecock  between  three 
establishments,  Rackhouse,  his  apartment  at  the 
Royal,  and  the  little  house  on  Long  Island,  and  in 
none  of  them  was  he  at  rest  when  left  alone  even 
for  a  moment.  As  a  result  Millie  and  Gladys,  in 


25o  RACKHOUSE 

combination  with  the  dower  house,  were  in  the 
ascendant.  There  he  staged  gatherings  which 
ate  up  the  hours  as  wastefully  as  a  sycophant 
spends  another's  money  and  to  which  he  occasion 
ally  dragged  both  Dick  and  Jimmie,  the  latter 
dominated  by  his  ineradicable  penchant  for  observ 
ing  the  actions  and  reactions  of  humanity  in 
solution. 

The  ex-college  professor,  vagrant,  money 
lender,  contrabandist,  perennial  philosopher,  and 
present  millionaire  was  by  no  means  out  of  the 
picture  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he  permitted 
himself  to  be  carried  away  by  Blackie's  insensate 
thirst  for  companionship.  He  would  take  his 
place  on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  vine-clad  dower 
house  beside  an  open  window  and  sit  content  by 
the  hour. 

Beyond  the  sloping  lawn  stretched  the  Sound, 
dotted  with  houseboats  and  pleasure  yachts  at 
anchor,  sources  of  spectacular,  unexpected  diver 
sion.  Through  the  veil  of  vines  at  the  other  end 
of  the  veranda  he  commanded  a  view  of  the  park 
entrance  to  the  great  house  on  the  hill;  through 
the  window  at  his  side  he  could  look  upon  the 
madness  that  went  on  in  the  long  living  room, 
stripped  of  rugs  and  made  resonant  by  the  syn 
copated  tones  of  a  hard-worked  gramophone. 

It  became  his  business,  when  present,  to  answer 
the  telephone,  as,  should  he  not  do  so,  no  one  else 
would.  He  was  possessed  by  an  innate  curiosity 
which  suffered  genuine  torture  at  the  ringing  of  an 
unanswered  bell,  the  same  curiosity  which,  devel- 


RACKHOUSE  251 

oped  to  the  proportions  of  an  art,  could  hold  him 
spellbound,  hour  after  hour,  wherever  people  con 
gregated,  established  contacts,  struggled  in  the 
grip  of  forces  only  half  hidden  to  his  deep-set 
eyes,  fought  and  generally  fell.  The  nostrils  of 
his  parrot  beak  of  a  nose  vibrated  to  any  un 
solved  human  equation  as  the  feet  of  an  ingenue 
tremble  to  the  distant  strains  of  dance  music. 
Never  would  he  forget  the  thrill  of  going 
to  the  telephone  and  hearing  a  throaty  voice, 
vaguely  remembered,  ask  for  Capt.  Roderic 
Norris. 

"Do  you  mean,  Blackie,  madam?" 

"Yes.  Of  course.  Blackie.  Who  is  this, 
please?" 

"Just  Jimmie." 

"I  am  Miss  Ardsley — Ruth  Ardsley.  I  met 
you,  but  I  know  you  better  now.  You  fooled  us — 
professor." 

"I  am  afraid  Dick  has  been  tattling  out  of 
school.  One  moment,  Miss  Ardsley,  and  I'll  call 
Blackie." 

"No;  don't  call  him." 

The  voice  dropped  its  tone  of  raillery.  "Jim 
mie —  Doesn't  everybody  call  you  Jimmie?" 

"Yes,  miss,"  he  replied,  quickly.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  eyes  beheld  her,  that  he  could  see 
again  the  girl  he  had  described  to  Millie  as  that 
rare  thing  among  women,  the  supreme  giver. 
"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  Blackie  to  motor  over  here, 
but  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  me  a  great  favor 


252  RACKHOUSE 

and  come  in  his  stead.  It  isn't  far — not  twenty 
minutes." 

"I  am  delighted,"  replied  Jimmie.  "If  you  will 
give  me  the  bill  of  way,  I'll  be  there  in  the  twenty 
minutes." 

A  moment  later  he  threaded  quickly  through 
the  whirling  couples  on  the  dancing  floor  and  past 
those  who  lounged  on  the  veranda  and  in  the 
garden.  He  found  Norris's  chauffeur,  ordered 
out  the  car,  and,  when  he  had  located  the  Ards- 
ley  cottage,  told  the  driver  to  draw  up  at  the  side 
of  the  main  road  and  wait.  He  himself  descended, 
disappeared  among  the  trees,  and  presently  ar 
rived  at  the  gate  where  Ruth  was  awaiting 
him. 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed.  "How  you  startled  me  ! 
It's  so  odd  to  see  anyone  on  foot  nowadays." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Jimmie.  "I  should  have  thought 
of  that.  But  there  are  so  many  things  Blackie's 
driver  has  to  know  that  I  thought  I'd  hold  out 
on  him  once." 

She  led  him  to  the  seat  cupped  in  shrubbery 
with  an  outlook  toward  the  Sound.  A  pale  moon 
was  riding  high  in  the  heavens  above  wisps  of 
flying  cloud  drift.  In  its  light — the  kindest  of  all 
lights  to  women — Ruth's  beauty  attained  to  a 
breath-taking  translucence  and  her  blue  eyes 
showed  black  as  glowing  velvet. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  murmured 
formally,  clasping  her  slim  hands  about  her  knee. 

"Don't  let's  waste  time,  my  dear,"  said  Jimmie. 
"I  am  your  friend.  Now  start  from  there." 


RACKHOUSE  253 

She  glanced  at  him  with  an  odd  smile  upon  her 
lips.  His  crisp  white  hair,  ruddy  cheeks,  parrot 
nose,  effeminate  mouth,  and  receding  chin  pre 
sented  in  themselves  one  of  those  problems  in 
contrast  he  himself  was  so  adept  at  solving,  but 
in  the  girl  at  his  side  he  awakened  only  an  amused 
wonder.  He  endured  her  inspection  without  the 
quiver  of  an  eyelash,  and  presently  she  accepted 
him  in  silence,  transferred  him  bodily  from  the 
illiterate  money  lender  of  her  single  recollection 
to  the  friendship  one  accords  only  to  a  kindred 
soul.  Her  eyes  buried  themselves  in  the  shadows 
of  the  night. 

"It's  about  Blackie — Roddy  Norris,"  she  be 
gan.  "Jimmie,  do  you  believe  that  a  man — I 
mean  the  man  within  a  man — can  be  ruined  by  a 
fluke — some  accidental  happening?" 

"No,"  said  Jimmie. 

His  answer  came  so  promptly  that  it  seemed  to 
give  a  sudden  check  to  her  thoughts.  She  sat  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  whole  face 
slowly  brightened  with  a  lingering  radiance. 
"What,"  she  asked,  "has  happened  to  Roddy? 
Is  he  going  up,  or  down  and — and  out." 

It  was  Jimmie's  turn  to  pause.  His  deep-set 
eyes  seemed  to  sink  into  his  head,  almost  out  of 
sight.  "God  only  knows,"  he  answered,  finally. 
"Sometimes  I  think  that  something  is  piling  up 
within  him,  higher  and  higher,  that  if  he  holds  it, 
he'll  be  a  great  man;  but  if  it's  once  pulled  down 
it  will  fall  with  a  crash,  a  terrific  crash,  and  leave 
nothing — not  even  a  ruin." 


254  RACKHOUSE 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth,  and  repeated:  "Yes.  I've 
felt  that.  Something  alive,  something  that  strug 
gles.  Jimmie,  which  side  is  going  to  win?" 

He  looked  at  her  profile,  set  like  an  illumined 
cameo  against  the  dark  background  of  foliage.  It 
seemed  ardent  with  the  intensity  of  her  concen 
tration,  as  though,  while  her  ears  tingled  to  hear 
his  answer,  she  herself  was  still  intent  on  an 
individual  perception. 

"That's  the  wonder  of  him,"  exclaimed  Jimmie. 
"Nobody  knows.  He  doesn't  know.  He's  like  a 
race  horse  with  thoroughbred  blood  in  his  veins 
carrying  top  weight  through  heavy  going — across 
slippery  turf  and  wide  jumps.  Nobody  knows. 
Even  Millie " 

"You've  seen  that,  too,"  breathed  Ruth,  filling 
in  his  pause.  "The  soft  hands — others'  hands — 
she  lays  on  him  to  pull  him  down,  to  bring  him 
within  her  own  reach!" 

"Millie  is  a  good  girl,"  interjected  Jimmie, 
quickly. 

"I  know,"  said  Ruth.  "If  I  didn't  dread  her, 
perhaps  I  could  hate  or  love  her.  Even  as  it  is, 
I  can't  help  seeing  her  as  the  most  steadfast 
human  being  I've  ever  met.  Not  noble  or  gener 
ous.  Just  a  wide-eyed,  implacable  fighter  for  the 
thing  she  most  wants." 

"That's  it,"  said  Jimmie,  appreciatively,  and 
added,  "Are  you  going  to  let  her  get  away  with 
it?" 

Ruth  raised  clenched  hands  and  pressed  them 
against  her  agitated  breasts.  Her  nostrils  quiv- 


RACKHOUSE  255 

ered  and  her  head,  abandoning  its  contemplative 
pose,  drew  erect.  "No,"  she  said.  "No/" 

"Then  come,"  murmured  Jimmie,  his  eyes 
glistening  with  the  peculiar  quality  of  daring  that 
had  made  him  a  man. 

In  the  meantime  things  had  been  happening  at 
the  dower  house.  Dick  Page  had  driven  over 
from  Rackhouse  in  a  touring  car  brazenly  laden 
to  capacity  with  cases  of  liquor.  All  hands  had 
been  called  out  to  help  him  unload,  and  he  was 
playing  the  part  of  captain  in  command  of  a  pirate 
crew,  chanting  in  a  hoarse  voice  an  improvisation 
of  his  own  which  began, 

"Bury  it  deep,  for  it's  liquid  gold, 
Stolen  twice,  yet  never  sold. 
Stow  it  away, 
'Neath  belt  and  stay " 

"Where  do  you  get  that  stay  stuff?"  demanded 
Norris,  above  the  uproar.  "Cut  out  the  Chaucer." 

From  a  yacht,  anchored  near  shore,  an  offshoot 
of  one  of  Storm  Tempest's  parties  was  disporting 
so  riotously  as  to  raise  a  rival  commotion.  Slim 
bodies,  belted  with  mere  wisps  of  bathing  attire, 
caught  the  gleam  of  the  pale  moon,  stood  poised, 
swayed  outward,  and  plunged.  A  young  girl, 
screaming  with  laughter  and  fear,  forcibly 
equipped  with  swimming  wings,  was  caught  up 
bodily  and  thrown  into  the  water,  her  assailants 
following,  each  with  a  cry  cut  short  by  the  dive. 
One  man,  fully  dressed  in  a  flecked  tweed  suit, 
remained  on  deck,  leaning  far  over  the  rail, 
17 


256  RACKHOUSE 

watching,  drinking  in  line  and  contour  and  flash 
ing  flesh. 

The  swimming  party  came  ashore  and  passed 
in  laughing  groups  and  couples  through  the  park 
gates.  One  girl  lingered,  heard  Dick's  refrain, 
and  drew  near  to  the  side  entrance  to  the  dower 
house.  Dick  turned  and  saw  a  vision.  She  stood 
erect  as  an  arrow,  framed  within  the  foliage  of 
an  open  wicket  arch.  Her  bobbed  hair  clung  in 
damp  ringlets  to  her  upflung  head.  Inflated 
swimming  wings  peeped  askew,  as  though  up 
rooted,  from  behind  her  shoulders.  Her  skin 
tight  suit  of  maillot  glistened,  still  wet  from  the 
sea,  emphasizing  the  fullnesses  of  her  lovely  body 
and  contrasting  the  whiteness  of  her  flesh,  of  her 
bare  arms  hanging  loosely  at  her  sides,  and  of  her 
straight,  rounded  legs.  She  was  very  young. 

"Want  any  help?"  she  cried  gayly  and  ran. 

Scarcely  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  tele 
phone  bell  rang,  and  Dick  answered.  Storm 
Tempest  was  on  the  wire.  "Say,"  he  began,  with 
out  introduction,  "I've  had  a  truck  load  of  the 
real  thing  on  order  for  a  week.  It's  two  days 
overdue,  and  in  the  meantime  the  crowd  here  has 
struck  a  thirst  pace  that  wiped  out  my  cellar  an 
hour  ago.  They're  howling.  Now  this  is  what 
I  say.  We've  got  the  entire  Friar's  Band  here, 
but  music  doesn't  go  far  without  hooch  these 
days,  and  I  say,  if  you  want  to  chip  in  with  a  few 
cases,  why,  come  along  and  bring  everybody  with 
you.  I'll  be  glad  to  replace,  of  course." 

"Replacements    be    damned,"     replied    Dick, 


RACKHOUSE  257 

promptly.  "We'll  b&  up  in  ten  minutes  with 
enough  booze  to  float  you  and  your  gang  out  of 
the  back  door.  Send  down  a  couple  of  touring 
cars,  will  you?" 

His  announcement  of  the  excursion  in  prospect 
was  greeted  with  shouts  of  approval.  Laughing 
excitedly,  Blackie's  entire  party  gathered  in  the 
living  room.  Girls  crowded  before  the  single 
mirror  to  prink,  men  dusted  their  clothes  of 
cigarette  ashes,  straightened  and  tightened  their 
ties,  while  Dick,  shouting  his  chantey,  reorgan 
ized  his  crew  and  put  it  to  work  carrying  out  the 
cases  which  had  just  been  unloaded. 

Norris  stood  on  one  side,  watching  the  pro 
ceedings  with  a  quizzical  look  in  his  eyes.  He 
had  taken  no  part  in  the  demonstration  of  ap 
proval,  but  had  yet  accepted  it  with  that  massive 
impassivity  which  was  making  him  increasingly 
a  puzzle  to  himself  and  to  his  associates.  Any 
departure,  however  mad,  that  could  hold  his  mind 
to  the  passing  moment,  seemed  to  rob  his  face  of 
indecisions,  leaving  it  serene  to  the  point  of  in 
difference,  hewn  broadly  out  of  rock,  impressively 
quiescent. 

Millie  eyed  him  anxiously.  These  moods  of 
sudden  withdrawal  troubled  her  more  than  fits  of 
despair  or  open  disdain.  "Give  him  a  great  big 
honest-to-Gawd  kiss,  Glad.  Pet  Blackie." 

Gladys  jumped  on  a  couch  and,  using  it  as  a 
springboard,  hurled  herself  recklessly  toward 
Norris's  arms.  He  caught  her  in  midair  and, 
cuddling  her  weight,  made  for  the  door,  while  she 


258  RACKHOUSE 

covered  his  lips  and  cheeks  and  neck  with  kisses. 
He  scarcely  noticed  her.  His  eyes  were  taking 
stock  of  the  company  he  was  about  to  lead  into 
the  fastnesses  of  the  great  house  on  the  hill.  Star 
ing  at  the  devotees  of  cheap  rouge  and  perfume, 
at  the  youths  gathered  from  dancing  floors  for 
the  nimbleness  of  their  feet,  and  thinking  of  the 
illustrious  in  name  or  notoriety  who  thronged  to 
Storm  Tempest's  bar,  bed,  and  board,  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  till  the  echoes  rang. 

Just  as  the  cortege  had  moved  away  from  the 
dower  house,  Jimmie  arrived,  accompanied  by 
Ruth,  and  called  to  Dick,  who  was  alone  at  the 
wheel  of  the  last  car.  Dick  turned,  stared,  gasped, 
leaped  to  the  ground,  and  hurried  back.  Un- 
noticing  the  cause  of  his  delay,  the  other  motors 
started  up  the  hill  with  a  deafening  thrum  of 
cylinders  and  a  blare  of  motor  horns. 

"Where  are  you  all  going?"  asked  Jimmie, 
quietly. 

"Up  to  Storm  Tempest's,"  said  Dick,  shame 
facedly.  His  eyes  stared  widely  at  Ruth.  "There's 
a  great  party  brewing.  You'd — you'd  better  beat 
it." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  level  eyed. 

Dick  looked  down  and  scuffed  the  gritty  road 
bed  with  his  toe.  "It's  apt  to  be  pretty  thick, 
Ruth.  Did  Blackie  know  you  were  coming?" 

"Never  mind  about  that,  Dick,"  said  Ruth, 
steadily.  "What  was  it  you  said?  If  my  friends 
go  to  hell  I  go,  too.  Lead  the  way.  We'll  follow 
you." 


RACKHOUSE  259 

Dick  started  reluctantly  to  obey,  and  then 
turned.  "Oh,  Ruth!"  he  said  in  a  choked  voice. 
"Please,  Ruth!" 

"We'll  follow  you,"  Ruth  repeated,  evenly, 
"or  we'll  lead  you.  Take  your  choice." 

Dick  sprang  into  his  car  and  threw  in  the 
clutch.  Just  behind  him  followed  the  motor  bear 
ing  Ruth  and  Jimmie.  As  they  topped  the  brow 
of  the  hill  and  caught  first  full  sight  of  the  great 
house,  a  noble  structure,  high  pillared,  broad  of 
wing,  its  placid  gaze  fixed  across  sweeping  lawn, 
forested  hollow,  and  the  far  reaches  of  the  shim 
mering  Sound,  Jimmie  asked,  half  of  himself,  half 
of  Ruth  and  a  mad  world,  "Do  you  know  what 
it  reminds  me  of — that  house?" 

"No,"  murmured  Ruth.     "Tell  me." 

"It  reminds  me,"  complied  Jimmie,  "of  that 
stately  matron  of  history,  Lucretia,  on  the  eve 
of  her  fame." 


Chapter  XIV 

^  I  ^HE  most  experienced  host  might  have 
•*•  quailed  before  the  task  of  mixing  oil  and 
water  with  which  Storm  Tempest  found  himself 
confronted.  On  the  parquet  floor  of  the  vast 
reception  room,  which  was  hung  with  pale  tapes 
tries  and  pendulous,  glittering  chandeliers  of 
ancient  bronze  and  crystal,  stood  two  nervous 
groups.  One  was  made  up  of  society  in  bulk — 
strictly  married  couples;  less  strictly  married 
couples;  split  pairs;  corespondents  and  divorcees; 
a  lawyer  or  two;  a  doctor  or  two;  several  women 
with  problematical  pasts;  as  many  men  with 
money  and  equally  doubtful  futures;  an  actress 
of  fame;  a  single  brazen  dcmi-mondaine  from 
across  the  water,  famously  infamous  on  two  con 
tinents;  and  finally,  a  considerable  number  of  nor 
mally  decent  folk  who  looked  and  acted  like 
people  from  out  of  town  at  a  risque  show. 

The  other  group  stood  around  in  uneasy,  gig 
gling  poses  or  nervous  indecision.  On  the  feminine 
side  it  was  composed  of  all  that  element  which 
moves  and  has  its  being  below  the  dead  line  of 
the  socially  accepted.  Young  ladies  of  chorus 
fame,  women  too  long  monopolized  to  keep  it 
dark;  climbers  of  every  category,  Gladys  and  her 

260 


RACKHOUSE  261 

class,  each  accompanied  by  an  appointed  satellite 
drawn  from  any  and  all  ranks  of  men,  eyed  one 
another  with  a  bold  stare  and  occasionally  cast 
curiously  timid  glances  at  their  stately  surround 
ings  and  across  the  chasm  of  the  half-empty  floor. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  stood  Millie,  in  violent 
contrast  to  everything  else  it  contained,  animate 
or  inanimate.  Alone  of  all  the  ill-assorted  throng 
she  was  not  nervous.  She  was  a  general,  coolly 
viewing  with  calculating  eyes  the  new  terrain  of 
battle,  summing  up  its  favorable  elements  and 
estimating  its  tactical  defects.  Without  looking 
around,  she  was  still  acutely  conscious  of  Jimmie 
standing  not  far  behind  her,  with  Ruth  Ardsley 
at  his  side. 

"Why  don't  they  start  the  jazz?"  complained 
a  bobbed-haired  and  bobbed-skirted  Broadway 
limpet  impatiently  as  she  discovered  a  full  negro 
orchestra  masked  behind  a  bank  of  palms. 

Many  were  echoing  her  wish  either  to  them 
selves  or  aloud,  but  Storm  Tempest  had  learned 
too  much  in  the  course  of  his  meteoric  career 
as  an  entertainer  to  commit  the  blunder  of  crystal 
lizing  the  gathering  while  it  was  yet  divided.  He 
knew  that  music  is  a  strictly  selective  amalgam 
and  that  the  occasion  called  for  a  solvent.  He 
was  a  smooth-limbed  giant  with  a  turbulent  shock 
of  sandy  hair,  and  in  spite  of  his  flecked  tweed  suit, 
rolled  collar^  flowing  foulard  tie,  and  well-made 
but  heavy  shoes,  he  gave  the  impression  of  ac 
quired  finish  which  crowns  any  consistent  idiosyn 
crasy.  One  conceded  spontaneously  that  it  was 


262  RACKHOUSE 

he  who  was  most  properly  garbed  for  the  sport 
in  hand,  and  not  the  scattered  clubmen  who  had 
turned  out  in  dinner  jackets. 

"Bring  it  in  through  the  front  door !"  he  roared 
at  a  signaling  butler.  "Hooch  is  king  in  this 
house.  Everybody  stand  by  to  bow." 

The  footmen  and  many  willing  helpers  carried 
the  cases,  one  after  another,  across  the  echoing 
reception  room  and  through  broad  open  French 
windows  which  gave  upon  a  marble-flagged  ter 
race  where  were  placed  a  great  round  table  and 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  well-equipped  bar. 

"Champagne,  Scotch,"  chanted  Tempest  as  the 
boxes  passed  him.  "Scotch  again,  champagne, 
champagne,  Scotch,  Scotch,  Scotch,  vermouth,  gin, 
gin,  gin,  champagne,  champagne,  Bacardi,  Ba 
cardi,  Scotch " 

He  broke  off  and  rushed  up  to  Dick.  "Are 
those  brand  marks  genuine.  Is  it  the  real  thing?" 
he  demanded. 

"Real  and  pure  as  the  dew  upon  the  mountains," 
answered  Dick,  promptly.  "Every  drop  straight 
from  bond." 

"Good  boy!  Good  boy!"  exclaimed  Tempest, 
thumping  him  on  the  shoulder. 

A  dinner  jacket  approached  and  drew  his  host 
aside.  "I  say,  Tempest,  do  you  know  who  that 
chap  is?  You  can't  have  him  here.  It's  just  like 
his  damned  nerve  to  come.  He's  Richard  Page, 
the  fellow  who  was  read  out  of  the  American 
Legion  for  collecting  $6,000  for  the  wounded  and 
stealing  it — every  red  cent  of  it." 


RACKHOUSE  263 

"You  don't  mean  the  Black  Mask?"  asked 
Tempest,  and,  upon  being  assured  that  Dick  was 
no  other,  his  eyes  sought  him  out  and  assumed  a 
look  of  possessive  pride.  Here  was  notoriety  of 
the  first  water,  a  distinction  and  success  he  could 
understand.  He  turned  to  his  objecting  guest. 

"Did  you  see  the  calling  card  he  brought  with 
him?"  he  asked,  coolly.  "Well,  it  would  pass 
Judas  Iscariot.  Forget  your  trouble  or  take 
whichever  door  you  came  in  by." 

He  went  out  to  the  terrace  and  with  his  own 
hands  helped  to  rip  open  case  after  case;  then, 
assisted  by  an  expert  barman,  he  began  to  mix 
drinks  in  an  enormous  cocktail  shaker  made  to 
order  to  hold  two  quarts  of  liquor.  Footmen 
lined  up  with  trays,  and  presently  a  long  proces 
sion  of  amber-tinted  glasses  meandered  in  a  sinu 
ous  course  around  the  reception  room.  Tempest 
refilled  the  mixer  and  took  his  stand  in  the  main 
doorway.  The  glittering  trail  of  liquor  became 
an  endless  chain.  Bottoms  up  was  the  rule,  and 
if  anyone,  man  or  woman,  attempted  to  skip  a 
turn,  Tempest  would  roar,  "Drink  and  the  world 
drinks  with  you;  renege  and  you'll  find  the  coat 
room  on  your  right  as  you  go  out.  That's  our 
motto :  pass  out  or  go  out — and  away." 

The  line  of  demarcation  began  to  waver  and  to 
melt.  "That's  right,"  shouted  Tempest,  "line  up, 
come  up,  draw  together  for  one  more  of  the  one 
and  only  Storm  Tempest  detonator." 

People  began  to  laugh  and  some  to  whoop. 
They  came  toward  him  singly  and  in  groups, 


264  RACKHOUSE 

slowly  and  in  a  rush,  some  truly  anxious  for  the 
next  drink,  others  as  a  matter  of  starting  the 
business  of  the  meeting  and  still  others  in  a  vague 
desire  to  stay  with  the  game  and  not  spoil  sport. 
He  drew  them  out  on  the  gallery,  where  they 
were  crowded  so  that  elbow  rubbed  elbow  and 
flesh  whispered  to  flesh. 

"One  more  round  and  then  I'm  through  with 
hard  labor,"  shouted  Tempest.  "Hold  your 
horses.  Let's  drink  just  one  together." 

As  Norris,  closely  attended  by  Gladys,  was 
about  to  raise  his  drink  to  his  lips,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  Ruth  and  Millie  standing  side  by  side  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  throng.  With  one  hand  Ruth 
leaned  lightly  on  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  ter 
race;  in  the  other  she  held  poised  her  brimming 
glass.  She  was  dressed  in  a  hat  which  he  had 
loved,  and  wore  loosely  hung  upon  her  shoulders 
a  cape  of  shimmering  black  satin  with  a  collar 
of  monkey  fur.  No  other  woman  in  the  assorted 
assemblage  struck  quite  so  high  a  note  of  distinc 
tion  or — wonder  of  wonders! — looked  more  at 
ease.  Norris  plowed  his  way  through  protesting 
guests  until  he  stood  before  her. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"How  rude  1"  cried  Ruth,  with  a  gay  laugh. 
"Drinking — drinking  with  you,  Roddy."  She 
raised  her  glass  and  drained  it. 

"Gee!  Blackie,"  broke  in  Millie,  "your  face  is 
all  funny !  Look  at  Glad  if  you  want  to  see  some 
thing.  They  certainly  like  Glad.  Look  quick!" 

He  turned  his  head  automatically,  but  slowly, 


RACKHOUSE  265 

as  though  it  were  being  dragged  around  against 
its  inclination.  Gladys,  perched  on  the  shoulders 
of  two  tall  men  and  with  one  perfect,  silk-clad  leg 
extended  at  the  horizontal,  was  being  whirled 
around,  the  high  heel  of  her  French  slipper  just 
missing  a  ring  of  uplifted  noses,  staring  eyes,  and 
lustily  shouting  mouths.  Waiting  for  no  further 
signal,  the  negro  band  in  the  great  reception  room 
suddenly  burst  into  a  blare  of  staccato  jazz.  The 
herd  on  the  gallery  milled  violently,  got  rid  of 
its  glasses  by  the  expedient  of  placing  them  on 
table,  balustrade,  a  passing  tray,  or  by  tossing 
them  lightly  on  the  lawn,  and  stampeded  for  the 
dancing  floor. 

Norris  turned  quickly  toward  Ruth,  the  surge 
of  syncopated  music  burning  blindingly  through 
his  veins,  but  already  he  was  too  late.  Dick  had 
sprung  up  from  nowhere,  vaulted  to  the  gallery 
at  her  side,  and  was  already  leading  her  away. 
Norris  watched  them  hurrying  along  in  the  wake 
of  the  great  crush  and  gradually  regained  his 
composure.  "Drinking  with  you,  Roddy."  The 
words  came  back  to  him  as  though,  having  found 
him  unattentive  at  their  first  sounding,  they  had 
awaited  his  leisure.  Intrinsically,  they  were 
natural  enough,  but,  remembering  the  tone  in 
which  they  had  been  spoken,  his  brows  drew  into 
a  puzzled  frown.  Just  what  was  their  meaning 
to  Ruth  Ardsley  and  to  himself?  Who  was  he? 
Where  was  he? 

Totally  unconscious  of  Millie  standing  awk 
wardly  at  his  side,  his  mind  leaped  back  in  review 


266  RACKHOUSE 

of  every  contact  he  had  had  with  Ruth  since  the 
night  when  Roddy  Norris,  on  the  eve  of  ruin  and 
of  his  pilgrimage  in  search  of  the  sources  of  com 
passion,  had  surrendered  possession  of  her  as 
firmly — and  weakly — as  he  had  prepared  to  swal 
low  financial  disaster  whole.  Why  had  he  done 
that  thing?  Why  hadn't  he  told  her  the  truth — 
all  of  it — and  let  her  coddle  and  help  him  out? 
Was  it  from  some  deep-seated  aversion  to  lean 
ing  on  a  woman,  or  was  it  just  because  she  had 
refused  to  hear  him  and  had  rushed  away  before 
he  had  had  a  chance  to  weaken? 

Then  had  come  the  amazing  fluke — the  dribble 
and  flow  and  flood  and  torrent  of  easy  money.  Its 
lack  had  robbed  her  from  within  his  arms;  its 
mounting  acquisition  had  pushed  her  away  and 
further  away  until,  on  the  evening  when  she  had 
come  to  the  Royal  and  presently  found  Millie 
with  Gladys  arrayed  against  her  in  open  battle, 
he  could  look  on  as  one  apart,  measure  her  coolly, 
find  her  as  desirable  as  a  master's  canvas  to  a 
connoisseur  or  a  rare,  uncut  edition  to  a  biblio 
phile  I  On  that  night,  half  unknown  to  himself, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  her,  acquire  her, 
add  her  to  his  possessions.  There  remained  the 
question  of  ways,  but  not  of  means.  He  had  come 
to  visualize  himself  as  a  flail,  a  predatory  club. 

Through  the  days  which  had  intervened  she 
had  been  constantly  in  the  background  of  his 
thoughts,  but  so  rounded  were  her  defenses,  so 
secure  was  she  behind  the  bulwark  of  a  lifetime 
of  his  affection,  that  his  hands  had  seemed  tied  by 


RACKHOUSE  267 

this  very  knowledge  of  her  invulnerability.  He 
knew  it  would  be  folly  to  try  to  summon  Roddy 
Norris  out  of  eclipse,  to  turn  back  the  hands 
upon  the  clock  of  character  and  make  a  futile 
attempt  to  return  arbitrarily  to  felicity  and  a 
dead  man's  shoes.  Roddy  was  gone — finished. 
It  was  Blackie  who  wanted  Ruth  Ardsley  and 
meant  to  get  her.  "Drinking  with  you,  Roddy." 
His  eyes  narrowed. 

"I  want  to  dance,  Blackie,"  murmured  Millie. 

"All  right,"  consented  Norris. 

He  led  her  to  the  floor,  and  as  they  danced  his 
eyes  wandered  about  the  room.  Strange  was  the 
sight  that  met  them.  Gone  were  all  those  defining 
lines  which  separate  elect  from  outcast,  night 
from  day,  hour  from  hour,  or  things  done  from 
things  not  done.  Time  as  time  faded  utterly  into 
tempo  as  the  informing  demon  of  the  syncopated 
cacophony  of  the  music.  Its  swing  had  seized 
upon  and  possessed  the  negro  players  most  of  all. 
Their  shoulders,  bodies,  and  feet  swayed  jerkily 
and  throbbed  to  the  barbarous  rhythm.  Their 
eyes  protruded  in  a  glassy  stare,  as  though  fixed 
by  the  reversion  of  generations  upon  atavistic 
scenes  of  tribal  license.  Sweat  poured  down  their 
faces. 

Drifting  from  them,  the  spirit  of  carnality,  un 
ashamed,  infected  the  dancing  throng.  On  the 
floor  there  was  no  turmoil — only  the  whisper  of 
feet  shuffling  in  unison,  of  the  caught  breathing 
of  tightly  held  bodies  and  of  here  and  there  a 
quivering  sigh.  Young  girls  and  women  old 


268  RACKHOUSE 

enough  to  know  better  pillowed  their  faces  on 
shoulders  or  cheek  to  cheek  and  seemed  to  swoon 
— never  to  dream.  But  at  each  interval  the  entire 
assembly  broke  into  a  rattle  of  inconsequential 
chatter  and  made  for  the  terrace. 

The  recognized  break  between  the  long  sequence 
of  encores  was  the  bare  time  required  to  secure  a 
drink,  down  it,  and  change  partners.  Norris,  hav 
ing  abandoned  Millie,  saw  Ruth  pass  from  Dick's 
to  Storm  Tempest's  arms,  and,  watching  his 
chance,  he  threaded  the  way  to  her  side  as  she  left 
the  floor  and  asked  her  for  the  next  dance. 

"The  next  dance  is  an  encore,"  said  Tempest, 
shortly.  "You'll  have  to  wait,  my  friend." 

"What  about  it,  Ruth?"  asked  Norris,  block 
ing  their  path  and  holding  his  ground. 

Ruth,  trying  to  smile  propitiatingly,  glanced 
anxiously  from  face  to  face  of  the  two  men  who 
were  fundamentally  so  different,  and  yet,  at  the 
moment,  seemed  to  have  been  cast  from  the  same 
mold.  Each  avoided  looking  at  the  other  and 
still  appeared  to  radiate  a  sense  of  instant  antip 
athy  to  each  other  and  of  instinctive  combat. 
Her  choice  hung  not  on  preference,  but  on  what 
she  thought  to  be  her  measure  of  control.  So 
strong  are  our  habits  of  association,  that  she  was 
still  subconsciously  in  the  grip  of  the  thought  that 
she  could  control  Roddy. 

"The  very  next  after  the  next,  Roddy,"  she 
said,  touched  his  arm  conciliatingly,  and  passed 
on. 

Norris  flushed  scarlet  and  turned  away.    It  had 


RACKHOUSE  269 

been  on  his  lips  to  say,  "Not  the  next  after  the 
next  or  ever  again,"  but  he  had  learned  to  let 
actions  speak  for  that  sort  of  thing.  His  smolder 
ing  gaze  fell  on  Jimmie,  who  had  appropriated  a 
chair  and  placed  it  in  the  noisy  seclusion  of  the 
fronded  palm  grove  which  masked  the  orchestra. 
There  he  sat,  his  thin  legs  crossed,  his  arms 
folded,  his  head  set  back  in  his  shoulders,  and  his 
beady,  deep-set  eyes  picking  and  snatching  at  one 
glint  after  another  of  the  human  kaleidoscope. 
His  parrot  nose  hung  out  from  his  face  and 
quivered  as  though  leading  him  on  to  gorge  him 
self  on  observation,  discovery,  and  deduction. 

"Hello,  Blackie !"  he  murmured,  as  Norris  ap 
proached.  "Liquid  gold,  eh?  These  are  the 
people  that  buy  it.  I  begin  to  see  why,  and  it's 
cheap  at  the  price.  Tell  Dick  to  charge  the  cases 
he  brought  over  to-night  to  me." 

"Why,  Jimmie?"  asked  Norris,  curiously.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  dipping  that  beak  of  yours  into 
any  of  it  yet." 

"No;  and  you  won't,"  replied  Jimmie,  drawing 
out  the  makings  of  a  self-rolled  cigarette.  "I'm 
too  busy."  His  fingers  trembled  and  then  steadied 
as  he  poured  the  golden  flakes  into  the  grooved 
paper.  His  eyes  scarcely  left  the  animated  scene 
to  complete  the  delicate  operation.  The  dancers 
were  coming  back.  They  poured  in  from  the  ter 
race  and  spread  out  over  the  floor  like  an  opening 
fan. 

"Spilled  humanity,"  he  continued.  "I've  seen 
things  to-night;  read  long  stories.  The  old,  old 


270  RACKHOUSE 

truth  that  lies  in  wine!  Listen,  I  saw  a  man  look 
at  a  woman  and  I  knew  he'd  seen  her  every  day 
for  three  years  and  never  noticed  her  slipping, 
fading  away,  out  of  her  shell.  He  stared  at  her 
and  said,  'You  look  like  hell!'  I  didn't  guess 
that;  I  heard  him  say  it;  and  she  died,  and  he 
walked  away  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 
There  he  goes  now,  dancing  with  that  little  plat 
inum  digger,  Gladys,  and  there's  the  woman  stand 
ing  in  the  window  yonder.  Dead,  quite  dead,  but 
on  her  feet,  God  help  her!" 

Norris  followed  Jimmie's  various  directions, 
recognized  the  man  in  the  case,  and  remembered 
the  notorious  chains  that  had  bound  him.  His 
eyes  threaded  the  throng  until  they  found  the 
woman.  She  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  one  of  the 
open  French  doors,  gripping  a  bubbling  glass  with 
white  fingers.  She  was  old;  her  face  gleamed  like 
a  death  mask  in  shadow. 

"You're  a  wonder,  Jimmie.  You  read  the  whole 
story — the  beginning  and  the  end." 

"There  was  another  awhile  ago — a  comedy," 
resumed  the  old  man.  "A  nice  little  woman  with 
that  look  in  her  flushed  face  which  says  she's  never 
tried  any  one  of  a  thousand  things  she's  been 
hearing  about,  but  she's  going  to  to-night — just 
once — just  to  see  if  there's  really  anything  in  it 
before  she  gets  too  old  to  be  shown.  She  reached 
out  her  smile  the  way  they  do  and  picked  a  man 
up.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  snatched  it 
away  as  if  a  bee  had  stung  him.  'No  ironsides  in 
mine,  thank  you,'  he  says.  'Go  upstairs  and  shed 


RACKHOUSE  271 

your  coat  of  mail.'  The  little  lady  watches  him 
wander  off,  looking  for  another  partner,  and  in 
stead  of  blowing  up  in  a  rage,  calling  hubby,  and 
beating  it  for  home,  she  glances  this  way  and  that, 
pouts  and  makes  for  the  stairway — goes  off  to 
shed  her  corsets." 

Norris  laughed.  He  couldn't  help  it.  Jimmie 
made  him  see  the  woman  too  clearly.  The  dance 
promised  to  him  by  Ruth  came  and  went,  but  he 
did  not  move.  Continuing  at  Jimmie's  side,  he 
saw  her  enter  from  the  terrace  a  minute  or  two 
late.  Evidently  she  had  waited  for  him,  but  could 
not  longer  withstand  the  importunities  of  her  over- 
attentive  host.  Once  more  Storm  Tempest  held 
her  in  his  arms  and  people  were  beginning  to 
notice  his  absorption  and  to  smile  knowingly.  His 
fashion  of  dancing  was  peculiar  to  himself.  He 
would  swing  across  or  down  the  floor  in  a  sort  of 
wide-flung,  exhilarating  abandon,  and  then  sud 
denly  slow  at  the  corners  to  short,  shuffling  mill 
ing  steps  and  whispered  intimacies  of  speech  and 
movement. 

Ruth  had  discarded  both  hat  and  satin  cloak 
and  stood  reve  ;led  in  a  simple,  smart  frock  of 
crepe  de  Chine.  She  was  happily  possessed  of 
hair  which  looked  charming  in  disarray,  and  her 
cheeks  and  her  eyes,  flushed  and  brilliant  with  ex 
citement,  gave  her  the  entrancing  allure  of  an 
ingenue  in  the  full  bloom  of  a  first  party.  To  the 
world  at  large  she  appeared  to  be  wholly  en 
grossed  by  the  duel  with  Tempest,  but  Norris 
knew  her  well  enough  to  know  better.  He  knew 

18 


272  RACKHOUSE 

that  she  was  acutely  conscious  of  himself  and 
that  the  battle  she  waged  against  the  swiftly 
mounting  familiarity  of  her  host  was,  as  yet,  a 
mere  incident  in  some  far  broader  field  of  opera 
tions.  Again  he  asked  himself  just  what  she  had 
meant  by  these  words,  "Drinking  with  you, 
Roddy."  What  did  she  wish  of  him?  What  if 
he  should  get  hold  of  her,  take  her  aside,  tell  her 
everything  from  start  to  finish,  would  it  help? 
No.  It  would  get  him  nowhere.  How  he  harked 
back  to  that  ideal  He  would  be  as  many  million 
miles  away  from  what  he  wished  of  her  as  he 
would  be  should  he  surrender  to  the  impulse  to 
pick  her  up  bodily  and  take  her  by  force.  The 
clock  of  what  we  are,  never  turns  back. 

"Did  you  ever  think,  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie, 
"that  a  man  does  a  lot  toward  making  his  own 
woman  by  where  and  how  he  takes  her?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Norris, 
almost  with  a  start  at  the  old  man's  uncanny  fac 
ulty  for  tapping  one's  innermost  thought  on  the 
head. 

"I  mean  what  I  said,"  replied  Jimmie.  "Look 
at  this  room.  There's  a  bigger  assortment  of 
girls  than  I've  ever  before  seen  gathered  in  one 
place.  There's  the  pick  of  the  sidewalk,  the  pick 
of  the  chorus,  the  pick  of  every  drawing-room, 
shaded  and  shady,  and  the  pick  of  the  land.  But 
I'd  be  willing  to  bet  a  truck  load  that  any  and  all 
seizures  made  here  to-night  would  cross  the  line 
at  the  same  spot,  into  the  same  landing  net,  and 
travel  the  same  quick-step  to  the  husks  of  noth- 


RACKHOUSE  273 

ing  at  all.  Women  in  liquor  are  won  on  the  plane 
of  liquor,  and  there  they'll  stay.  Listen.  All  the 
moments  of  beginnings  leave  an  indelible  impres 
sion.  You  don't  realize  it  at  the  time,  of  course, 
but  they  do;  and  the  air  of  a  bawdy  house  lives 
just  as  long  in  memory  as  the  clean  wind  on  the 
mountain  tops  of  emotion." 

"I  don't  get  you  yet,  Jimmie,  unless  you  mean 
that,  unwon,  this  lot  is  as  assorted  as  a  candy 
shop,  but,  once  put  through  the  same  mill,  they'd 
all  come  out  the  same  pasty  muck." 

"That's  it,"  said  Jimmie,  "clearer  than  I  could 
put  it  myself." 

"Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Norris. 
"I  can't." 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  to,"  qualified  Jim 
mie.  "Of  course,  there's  always  the  great  Unless. 
I  say  there's  nothing  here  but  flesh  on  the  hoof, 
unless  a  man  could  tower  out  of  the  bog  and  make 
his  own  mountain  top."  Suddenly  his  head  jerked 
back.  "Look!  For  the  love  of  Mike,  look!" 

The  lovely  young  girl  of  the  swimming  wings 
and  the  ringleted  crown  of  sea-dampened  hair  had 
watched  Storm  Tempest  and  Ruth,  first  curiously, 
then  with  a  smoldering  anger,  and  finally  with  a 
masked  yawn.  She  had  gone  out,  gathering  a 
group  of  kindred  spirits  as  she  went.  Now  they 
had  come  back,  rushing  down  the  great  staircase 
in  the  wake  of  peals  of  their  own  laughter,  and 
bursting  into  the  upper  end  of  the  ballroom  just 
as  a  dance  was  finishing.  They  were  in  their 
wisps  of  bathing  suits. 


274  RACKHOUSE 

"We're  going  for  a  swim,"  called  the  girl  of 
the  wings,  across  the  room.  "Why  don't  you  all 
come?" 

The  dancers  stopped,  turned,  and  stared  as 
she  had  intended  they  should.  A  dozen  men 
stampeded  toward  her,  also  as  she  had  intended. 
They  could  not  be  blamed.  With  the  faint  full 
nesses  of  her  adolescent  body  cast  in  has  relief 
against  the  incongruous  background,  she  looked 
like  a  vision  of  innocence  awaiting,  wide  eyed,  the 
kiss  of  evil.  Temptation  played  lightly  in  her 
curling  hair,  her  smiling  lips,  across  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  her  bare  limbs,  and  most  of  ail  in 
the  mischievous  note  of  the  high-heeled  slippers 
she  had  not  discarded.  The  dancers,  men  and 
women,  swept  forward  in  a  spontaneous  encircling 
movement,  surrounded  the  bathing  party,  and 
shouted  for  music.  The  band  caught  the  cue  and 
broke  into  a  barbaric  toddle.  The  girl  and  her 
companions  were  seized,  fought  over,  and  cap 
tured  amid  an  uproar  which  drowned  out  their 
laughing  protests. 

"Oh!"  cried  Ruth,  gasping  at  the  audacity,  and 
yet  thrilled  with  a  sort  of  lingering  homage  for 
the  sheer  beauty  of  the  girl's  young  body. 

Storm  Tempest  stared  at  the  vision  for  a  quiver 
ing  moment  of  indecision  and  then  back  at  Ruth's 
face.  He  studied  it  shrewdly,  searching  it  for  one 
of  the  infinitesimal  signposts  of  progress  along  the 
road  to  license,  then  took  her  hand,  drew  her 
slowly  toward  him,  and  slipped  his  arm  around 
her  waist. 


RACKHOUSE  275 

"Do  you  know  what  that  was?"  he  asked,  in  a 
whisper,  as  she  began  to  dance  automatically. 
"It's  a  trick — a  lovely  trick,  by  gad!  She's  sore 
at  me,  and  a  damned  sight  sorer  at  you.  Yes, 
sir.  She  played  a  trump  card — I'll  give  her  that 
— the  king  ace  of  spades.  What  a  body,  eh? 
Lovely.  But  you've  got  something  more.  She 
does  that  and  men  go  plumb  crazy  to  dance  with 
her;  but  if  you  did  it,  do  you  know  what  would 
happen?" 

"No,"  said  Ruth,  striving  to  regain  possession 
of  her  lost  senses  of  proportion.  "What  would 
happen?" 

"The  man  who  loved  you  most,"  murmured 
Tempest,  drawing  her  clcse,  "would  kill  you  first. 
That's  how  you  could  find  out  who  loves  you  most 
of  all." 

"Heady  wine,  Blackie,"  said  Jimmie,  his  beady 
eyes  shooting  out  here  and  there  across  the  floor 
with  the  lightninglike  action  of  a  serpent's  forked 
tongue.  "Headier  than  all  Dick's  cases  of  cham 
pagne  from  which  it  was  brewed.  Watch  it  work 
— the  wine  of  that  one  girl's  presence.  Never 
mind  the  gang  that  came  in  with  her.  They're 
lost  in  the  shuffle,  son.  Why?  Ha !  She  was  the 
symbol,  boy,  and  a  symbol  strikes  at  the  brain. 
Watch  faces.  See  them  catch  the  fumes." 

Norris  scarcely  heard  him.  His  moving,  fol 
lowing  gaze  was  fixed  with  a  rigid  concentration 
on  Ruth  and  her  partner,  and,  as  he  watched,  the 
fibers  of  his  body  began  to  tauten  one  by  one  as 
though  some  unseen  hand  were  tightening  the 


276  RACKHOUSE 

strings  of  a  fiddle,  raising  them  notch  by  notch 
to  a  high  key. 

"Yes,  sir,"  continued  Jimmie's  tense  monotone. 
"There  it  is.  Watch  it  come,  spreading  over  their 
faces  like  a  haze.  Matron,  maiden,  and  near- 
maiden;  fast  women,  loose,  tottering,  and  good 
women — good  yesterday,  to-day,  and  who  knows 
to-morrow — all  with  the  same  liquid  gold  run 
ning  in  their  veins.  One  blood,  son,  all  one  blood, 
the  image  of  that  girl's  symbol  in  all  their  dopey 
eyes." 

His  glance  caught  and  fastened  on  Dick,  sitting 
moodily  aloof  with  Millie  at  his  side.  The  girl 
was  tense,  all  eyes,  erect  as  a  ramrod,  waiting — 
waiting  for  she  knew  not  what — but  with  a  line,  a 
groove  of  anxious  expectation  between  her  drawn 
brows.  So  far,  if  the  night  had  not  gone  against 
her,  it  certainly  had  not  swung  the  full  tide  of 
battle  in  her  favor.  What  was  the  matter  with 
her  men — Blackie,  Jimmie,  and  Dick?  Why 
couldn't  they  take  drink  for  drink  with  the  crowd, 
and  if  they  had,  why  didn't  it  show  on  them? 
What  hope  had  she  of  Blackie  short  of  the  mad 
ness  which  might  lose  him? 

"Dick's  got  it,"  continued  Jimmie's  voice.  "He 
sees  it.  A  clean  boy,  Dick.  Pranks,  yes;  but 
they  hang  on  the  solid  trunk  of  him  like  moss  on 
a  tree,  blowing  to  a  gay  wind.  I've  been  watch 
ing  men  cut  him,  Blackie.  Like  a  game  with  a 
whip.  The  drunker  they  get,  the  more  they  re 
member  there's  something  that  calls  for  the  lash. 
I've  seen  it  fall,  and  him  taking  each  stinging 


RACKHOUSE  277 

flick  with  a  white  smile  that  never  changes.  True 
blue.  Foundations.  That  boy's  built  into  the 
live  rock  of  old  Manhattan.  If  there  are  more 
like  him,  now  is  their  time.  They'd  better  get 
together  and  yell  all  at  once  so  folks  can  hear  it 
that  youth  shall  be  served  with  something  better 
than  heel  taps.  What's  come  over  you,  Blackie? 
Are  you  dumb?" 

He  glanced  up  at  Norris  and  instantly  his  florid 
cheeks  blanched.  Blackie's  eyes  were  glaring  bale- 
fully  at  a  fixed  point  and  suddenly  flared  into  a 
white,  blinding  blaze  of  light.  Jimmie  followed 
their  direction  with  a  flashing  look.  He  saw  Storrn 
Tempest's  strong  hands  grip  Ruth  by  the  arms 
and  drag  her  struggling  body  up  until  he  could 
crush  his  mouth  upon  her  defenseless  lips.  She 
wrenched  her  head  to  one  side,  but  Tempest's 
right  hand  had  crept  to  her  back  and  then  to  her 
neck.  His  fingers  caught  her  head  in  a  vise,  so 
that  he  could  kiss  her  mouth  with  deliberation  and 
at  will. 

"Roddy  1" 

It  was  a  gasp ;  a  penetrating  groan  that  brought 
a  sudden,  startled  stillness  to  the  room. 

"Coming!"  cried  Norris  in  the  dry,  choked  cry 
of  stifling  rage,  and  crashed  his  way  across  the 
floor,  hurtling  dancers  to  right  and  left.  Too  late 
Jimmie  stretched  forth  a  puerile  detaining  hand. 

At  Norris's  almost  inarticulate  cry  Dick  Page 
leaped  to  his  feet,  dazed  with  a  memory  of  battle 
and  sudden  death.  He  remembered  Blackie  in 
action,  Blackie  of  Rackhouse,  Blackie  at  the  wheel 


278  RACKHOUSE 

of  No.  7,  and,  remembering,  his  blood  froze  in 
his  veins.  Still  stunned,  his  eyes  swept  the  room, 
caught  the  course  of  Roddy's  ponderous  rush, 
followed  it,  and  saw  Ruth  still  held  in  air  to 
Tempest's  outrageous  embrace. 

"Stop  him!  Stop  Blackie!"  he  shouted, 
hoarsely,  hurling  himself  forward.  "Stop  him! 
He's  a  killer !  A  killer,  I  tell  you !" 

Nobody  heeded  him.  Blackie  reached  Tempest. 
With  a  terrific  body  blow  beneath  the  arm  he 
shook  him  loose  and  free  from  the  struggling  girl. 
For  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  two  men  faced 
each  other.  A  single,  instantaneous  look  was 
enough  to  establish  the  one  rule  of  the  game  each 
knew  best:  Anything  goes. 

Scarcely  had  the  flash  of  challenge  passed  when 
Blackie  moved  with  astonishing  rapidity.  Keep 
ing  his  eyes  so  steady  that  they  gave  no  inkling 
of  warning,  he  brought  his  heel  smashingly  down 
on  Tempest's  foot,  and  in  the  precious  instant  of 
surprise  struck  upward  with  his  other  knee.  As 
the  man  reeled  back  from  the  impact  he  crashed 
both  fists  to  his  face  like  the  rapid  percussions 
of  a  double-barreled  gun. 

Tempest  staggered,  leaped  backward,  caught 
his  balance,  and,  with  his  great  hands  outstretched 
like  reaching  talons,  sprang  at  his  assailant.  No 
longer  was  he  the  week-end-party  king;  he  was 
Dennis — Dennis  Tempest  of  mining  camp,  oil 
field,  and  a  hundred  stormy  brawls.  A  muffled 
bellowing  tore  its  way  from  his  throat  and  issued 
as  curses — the  loathly  curses  of  the  rage  of  the 


RACKHOUSE  279 

backwoods.  His  reddened  eyes  fastened  on  Nor- 
ris's  throat.  Oblivious  of  blows,  his  hands 
clutched  Blackie's  coat  and  then  his  collar  and 
shirt,  tearing  at  them,  stripping  them  away  in 
shreds  as  though  nothing  would  satisfy  the  hunger 
of  his  curved  fingers  short  of  the  bare  flesh  of  a 
naked  neck.  He  wanted  but  one  thing.  One 
thing.  The  gnarled  knuckles  of  his  thumbs  once 
into  the  sockets  beneath  Blackie's  ears  and  they'd 
never  come  out.  Never ! 

Norris's  eyes  gleamed  wickedly,  grew  smaller 
and  smaller  until  they  were  mere  pin  points  of 
scintillating  light.  With  foot  and  knee  and  fist  he 
fought  for  the  freedom  of  his  arms,  tore  himself 
loose  again  and  again,  edging  backward  with  sud 
den  steps,  waiting — waiting  for  the  one  thing  that 
he  in  his  turn  wanted,  the  chance  to  swing  once 
and  for  all.  And  it  came.  At  last  it  came.  Fist, 
arm,  shoulder,  and  body — all  in  line — straight 
to  the  point  of  Tempest's  jaw.  He  went  down 
with  a  hurtling,  sickening  thud.  His  massive 
head,  with  its  shock  of  sandy  hair  wet  with  sweat, 
tapped  the  floor  once  and  once  only.  As  though  it 
had  been  loosened  from  the  spine,  it  lolled  and 
lay  still. 


Chapter  XV 

"TTE'S  done  it,  God  help  us!"  whispered  Dick. 
-^•-^-  He  had  been  on  the  point  of  plunging  in 
to  save  Roddy  from  once  again  committing  man 
slaughter,  when  he  had  been  arrested  by  Jimmie's 
clawlike  hand  laid  restrainingly  upon  his  arm. 

Jimmie  had  tried  to  stop  Blackie  himself,  but 
between  that  instinctive  movement  and  Dick's 
swift  approach  the  old  man  had  had  an  instant 
to  think,  and  it  had  been  enough — enough  to  re 
member  what  his  prescience  had  said  to  Ruth  and 
what  his  philosophy  had  said  to  Roddy.  To 
Ruth  he  had  said  of  Blackie,  "Sometimes  I  think 
that  something  is  piling  up  within  him,  higher  and 
higher,"  and  to  Roddy  he  had  spoken  of  the  great 
Unless.  "Unless  a  man  could  tower  out  of  the 
bog  and  make  his  own  mountain  top." 

Well,  they  were  here — Ruth  and  Roddy — and 
those  obscure  forces  of  fate  which  never  tire  of 
welding  drama  out  of  the  sparks  of  one  terrific 
moment  in  the  petty  collisions  of  human  flesh  had 
fixed  the  stage  upon  which  others  would  see  only 
the  crashing  fight  between  Blackie  and  his  host, 
but  where  he,  Jimmie,  could  watch  the  sweep  of  a 
far  deeper  battle.  Out  of  its  ruck  something 
greater  than  the  combined  destinies  of  this  swill- 

280 


RACKHOUSE  281 

ing  throng  might  emerge.  The  gods  had  set  the 
scene  for  Ruth  and  Roddy.  They  alone  stood  out, 
tremendously  important,  like  a  solitary  ship  upon 
a  tempestuous  and  meaningless  sea  of  slobber 
ing  waves.  Everything  else — everyone  else — 
dwindled  to  the  proportions  of  mere  props.  And 
on  that  thought  he  had  said  to  Dick,  in  the  oily 
voice  of  the  master  of  Rackhouse,  "Let  it  ride." 

The  fight  was  over.  No  one  spoke;  no  one 
moved.  The  entire  action  had  lasted  scarcely 
more  than  a  minute,  but  those  few  seconds,  lifted 
out  of  numberless  unheeded  hours,  seemed  to  have 
set  back  and  fixed  the  clock  of  time.  Having 
passed,  they  still  lived,  holding  a  throng  immobile 
in  their  grip.  The  circle  of  stunned  and  gaping 
faces  still  held  its  formation,  round  as  the  clean- 
cut  swing  of  a  compass.  To  one  side  of  the  glossy, 
cleared  space  lay  the  prone  body  of  Storm  Tem 
pest,  large,  heaped  upon  itself  like  a  fallen  monarch 
of  the  forest  riven  by  lightning,  head  doubled, 
long  arms  flaccid  and  outflung. 

Near  the  circle's  center  half  knelt  Ruth.  Upon 
her  upright  knee  she  pillowed  her  arms,  and  on 
her  arms  her  bowed  head.  She  was  shaking  spas 
modically,  torn  by  emotions  too  deep  for  sobs  or 
tears.  Horror  held  her,  played  its  discordant 
minor  chords  on  all  the  taut  nerves  of  her  out 
raged  slim  body  and  numbed  her  valiant  soul.  To 
what  an  end  had  come  the  clean  flame  of  her 
desire — her  search — her  pilgrimage  of  the  all- 
embracing  heart  to  humanity's  guarded  shrine, 
to  the  eternal  sources  of  compassion! 


282  RACKHOUSE 

All  eyes  but  hers  were  fixed  on  Roddy.  Fitful 
glimmers  of  individual  intelligence  began  to  gleam 
and  spread  like  a  trail  of  running  fire  until  they 
became  one  and  shone  evenly  in  the  awakening 
circle  of  faces,  like  a  pale  dawn  of  wonder.  But 
silence  still  held.  It  persisted  so  long  that  Ruth 
was  startled  by  a  sense  of  solitude  into  looking  up. 
No.  The  people  were  all  there,  but,  once  her  eyes 
fell  on  Norris,  she  forgot  them.  Her  heart  quick 
ened,  her  blood  leaped  in  her  veins  and  surged 
through  all  her  body,  lifting  her  on  its  mounting 
flood. 

He  stood  with  feet  planted  apart  in  the  upright 
pose  of  the  straddling  Colossus.  His  bare  arms, 
stripped  and  lacerated,  hung  at  his  sides.  His 
head  was  sunken  into  his  broad  shoulders  and 
his  uncovered  chest  heaved  to  his  deep  breathing. 
To  Ruth's  upraised  eyes  he  seemed  miraculously 
enlarged — statue  and  pedestal — a  tower,  not 
transient,  but  built  stone  upon  stone  and  cemented 
immutably  into  a  fulfilled  symbol  of  power.  His 
face  held  her  and  held  the  crowd  in  a  momentary 
trance  of  amazement  and  expectancy. 

His  lips  were  moving.  What  was  he  going  to 
say?  Something  from  the  heights.  Something 
allied  to  the  thunderbolt  of  Heaven.  Something 
linked  to  the  traditions  of  damning  prophecies. 
His  arms  rose  slowly — very  slowly — in  a  tre 
mendous  gesture,  wide  as  the  wings  of  an  eagle. 
He  held  them  poised  while  his  eyes  swept  the 
tawdry  and  disheveled  crowd.  Suddenly  the  mus 
cles  in  his  arms  tensed  and  swelled. 


RACKHOUSE  283 

"Flesh,"  he  murmured,  and  in  the  stillness  the 
word  sounded  like  a  shout.  "Hogwash  spilled 
on  the  temple  floor.  I  wish  I  were  Samson.  No; 
I  wish  there  were  pillars,  for  my  strength  is  upon 
me!" 

The  words  were  all  the  more  terrible  in  that  he 
had  not  raised  his  voice.  In  very  truth  his 
strength  was  upon  him — a  strength  felt  and 
feared,  but  scarcely  understood.  The  compact 
circle  broke,  crumbled,  scattered,  and  scurried. 
The  man  was  crazy.  This  thing  might  get  in  the 
papers.  What  if  Tempest  died  from  that  mur 
dering  blow?  Each  one  thought:  "Me!  My 
name  in  this  mix-up !"  They  hurried,  they  ran, 
they  fled — all  save  Jimmie,  Dick,  and  the  servants 
of  the  house.  Even  Millie,  the  unafraid,  know 
ing  herself  utterly  defeated,  passed  out  with  the 
rest,  but  with  her  head  turned  for  a  last  glance 
at  Roddy  and  Ruth. 

Roddy  had  dropped  his  arms  and  was  staring 
into  Ruth's  upturned  face.  He  stooped  over, 
gathered  her  up  easily,  and,  stepping  over  Tem 
pest's  still  prostrate  but  writhing  body,  made  for 
the  terrace.  He  crossed  it,  descended  its  shallow 
steps  to  the  lawn,  threaded  the  maze  of  a  sunken 
garden,  walked  down  winding  paths  into  the  un 
kempt  valley,  climbed  a  moldering  wall,  and 
breasted  a  rise  of  fallow  pasture  land,  sweeping 
upward  toward  an  untenanted  hilltop. 

"I  have  come  out,"  he  murmured  twice,  more 
to  himself  than  to  her,  "and  I've  got  to  bring  you 
out — all  the  way  out." 


284  RACKHOUSE 

Ruth  clung  to  him  tightly  with  both  her  arms. 
She  was  awake — never  so  wide  awake  of  both 
body  and  soul  in  all  her  life — and,  knowing  her 
own  heart  to  be  throbbing  as  never  before,  she 
pressed  her  face  close  to  his  breast,  but  she 
listened  in  vain  for  an  answering  echo,  for  the 
quickened  pulse  of  conscious  contact  and  posses 
sion. 

"Roddy,"  she  whispered,  at  length,  "where  are 
we  going?" 

"Somewhere  on  these  hills,"  he  answered, 
promptly,  "we'll  find  the  clean  dew  of  heaven. 
I — I  want  to  wash  you." 

Doubt  died  from  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  broke 
into  a  tremulous  smile.  She  turned,  brushed  the 
bare  flesh  of  his  shoulder  with  her  lips,  settled 
restfully  into  his  arms,  and  pillowed  her  head  defi 
nitely  against  his  neck.  What  mattered  it  where 
they  went  so  he  carried  her,  never  let  her  go? 
How  strong  he  was!  How  firmly  his  feet  lifted 
the  two  of  them  up  and  still  upward  until  the 
world  seemed  to  lag  behind,  watching  them  climb, 
watching  them  go.  How  high!  She  who  knew 
the  island  as  the  palm  of  her  hand  felt  a  vague 
wonder  at  the  sense  of  undiscovered  height  and 
isolation  to  be  had  by  labor  at  the  summit  of  a 
rounded  hilltop. 

He  put  her  down  in  the  grass  at  the  very  apex 
of  the  rise.  There  were  higher  hills  to  the  east 
and  to  the  west,  but  none  so  bare,  so  open  to  the 
faint  breezes  of  the  night,  so  individually  owned 
as  this  mound,  abandoned  by  mortals,  seized  for 


RACKHOUSE  285 

the  uses  of  the  gods  by  the  divine  right  of 
lovers. 

"Is  the  grass  damp,  Ruth?"  he  asked,  kneeling 
before  her.  "I  wish  it  were  wet.  Roll  in  it. 
Please  roll  in  it.  Rub  your  face  against  the 
ground." 

He  spoke  so  soberly,  waited  so  patiently,  that 
to  humor  him  she  leaned  far  over  and  brushed 
her  lips  to  and  fro  in  the  pungent  plumes  of  the 
unmown  hay. 

"More;  harder,"  begged  Roddy. 

"I — I  can't,  Roddy,"  protested  Ruth,  looking 
gravely  into  his  eyes.  "It — it  tickles." 

"Does  it?"  he  said,  staring  at  her  unsmilingly. 
"Well,  sit  so,  then,  with  your  face  up,  and  perhaps 
God's  wind  will  wash  it  clean." 

Her  deep-blue  eyes  grew  suddenly  suffused  as 
she  caught  the  monstrous  injustice  of  his  implica 
tion.  Her  lips  trembled.  "Oh,  Roddy  I"  she  cried, 
her  throat  half  choked  with  tears,  "I  couldn't 
help  it!  How  could  I  help  it?  If  you  look  at 
me  so,  as  if  the  mark  of  the  beast  had  clung  to 
my  lips,  I'll  tear  them  off,  I'll—  Oh,  Roddy!" 

Roddy  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands.  "Stop!" 
he  groaned.  "Don't  cry — not  for  me — not  for 
anything  my  dirty  mouth  can  say." 

She  reached  out  her  hand,  ran  her  fingers 
through  his  hair,  and  forced  his  head  back. 
"Look  at  me,"  she  said.  "Let  me  see  your  face. 
Talk  to  me." 

He  stared  at  her.  "How  easy  to  talk  to  you," 
he  murmured,  "how  incredibly  easy  I  Do  you  re- 


286  RACKHOUSE 

member  Roddy  Norris,  Ruth?  Clean,  upstand 
ing,  forever  smiling;  never  sweeter  at  the  core 
than  on  that  night  when  he  gave  you  up,  not  ex 
actly  for  your  own  good,  but  because  he  had  come 
to  the  end  of  the  only  road  he  knew." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Roddy?    What  road?" 

"The  road  of  the  silver  spoon,"  said  Norris. 
"He  went  to  bed  a  pauper,  but  square  with  the 
world  and  you.  And  then — then — Ruth,  don't 
you  know  what  happened?  Can't  you  guess?" 

"Go  on.     I'll  guess  nothing." 

"Well,"  continued  Norris  with  the  air  of  one 
who  goes  back  to  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
"you've  got  to  remember  that  you  were  Roddy's 
heart  around  which  beat  all  the  veins  of  life. 
Where  he  went,  you  went,  too.  Always.  There 
was  never  a  day,  nor  an  hour,  distance  nor  time, 
when  he  couldn't  reach  out  and  take  your  hand  in 
any  one  of  the  hundred  moods  of  all  the  years. 
He  never  stopped  to  think  whether  you  were 
good  or  bad,  just  pretty  or  beautiful,  clean  or 
unclean,  because  it  didn't  matter — it  couldn't. 
You  were  one  of  the  things  that  had  to  be  just 
as  you  were,  like  sunshine  and  rain." 

"Remember!"  interrupted  Ruth.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  really  think  Roddy  ever  said  a 
word  to  me  of  all  that?" 

"He  did.  Every  day  of  his  life.  What  was 
there  to  tell  that  you  didn't  know?  And  yet  he 
did,  over  and  over  again,  when  he  looked  at  you, 
when  he  smiled,  when  he  breathed  to  your  breath, 
laughed  in  your  laughter,  touched  your  hand  or 


RACKHOUSE  287 

got  a  jolly  thrill  if  your  hair  blew  across  his  face. 
And  then " 

"Then  what?"  urged  Ruth. 

"Well,  then  he  went  out,  stepped  quite  out  of 
life  that  night.  I'll  tell  you  why.  Because  he  was 
broke,  dead  broke." 

"For  just  money?"  asked  Ruth,  unbelievingly. 

"For  money,"  replied  Norris.  "Is  there  any 
thing  so  extraordinary  about  that?" 

"Nothing  extraordinary  about  being  without 
money,"  said  Ruth,  soberly,  "but  something  in 
credibly  stupid — belovedly  stupid,  if  you  like — in 
giving  me  up  for  the  lack  of  it.  Oh,  Roddy,  how 
— Well,  it's  no  use.  Go  on." 

"Then  came  the  crucial  instance,"  continued 
Norris,  "the  one  thing  in  all  the  world  that  could 
keep  me  from  telling  you  the  truth  the  day  or  the 
week  or  the  month  after  that  night.  The  cursed 
fluke,  Ruth.  The  fluke  of  that  ghastly  organ  and 
its  bottomless  maw,  gathering  in  the  pennies,  the 
nickels,  and  the  silver  of  the  compassionate  poor. 
Four  hundred  dollars — over  four  hundred  dollars 
on  that  first  day — and  a  man  you  never  knew,  a 
miser  not  fit  to  lick  the  dust  from  Roddy's  feet, 
pocketed  it,  lied  to  you  and  Rocksie  and  stowed 
the  money  away.  Added  to  it  day  by  day. 
Hoarded  it  in  dusty  corners.  Ashamed  of  the  bank 
and  of  the  faces  of  honest  men.  Locked  you  out 
and  away " 

Again  Ruth  placed  her  hand  on  his  head,  but  he 
shook  it  off.  "There's  more  to  follow,"  he  con 
tinued.  "After  the  Black  Mask,  Blackie;  after 

19 


288  RACKHOUSE 

pilfering,  banditry.  Pillage  under  charter  and 
letters  of  marque.  Rackhouse  Incorporated. 
That  meant  little  enough  to  you  when  Dick  told 
you  about  it.  What  does  it  mean  after  to-night? 
Gold — liquid  gold,  Jimmie  named  it — spilling 
from  a  thousand  festering  springs.  Rotting  men 
and  women  not  because  it's  booze,  but  because  it's 
contraband.  Rotting  them  away,  that's  it.  Seep 
ing  at  the  roots  of  honor,  virtue,  and  deportment. 
Jostling  courtesan  and  virgin.  Well,  all  that  is 
Blackie's  doing.  That's  Blackie.  And,  Ruth,  get 
this.  I'm  Blackie." 

"Have  you  finished?"  asked  Ruth,  with  a 
sudden  straightening  of  her  lips. 

"No.  Not  yet.  Did  you  hear  what  Dick  yelled 
to-night  when  I  started  out  to  get  Storm  Tempest? 
No;  you  couldn't;  but  I  did.  I  heard.  He 
shouted:  'Stop  him.  He's  a  killer!'  He  meant 
it  because  he  knows.  After  Blackie,  the  killer, 
Ruth;  two  men  in  the  same  skin,  only  one  horribly 
bigger  than  the  other.  I've  seen  things  on  the 
open  road,  done  things  before  somebody  else 
could  do  them  to  me,  that  I'll  see  and  do  over  and 
over  again  in  my  dreams  to  my  dying  day." 

He  held  out  his  hands  and  stared  down  at 
them.  "You  saw  what  happened  to  Tempest? 
That  was  child's  play — morning  prayer — grace  in 
a  hurry  before  meals.  He's  come  to,  you  can  be 
sure.  By  this  time  he's  thrashing  around  in  a 
wide,  soft  bed,  his  head  full  of  noises,  his  eyes 
full  of  stars,  and  his  mouth  full  of  curses.  But 
there  were  others — more  than  I  know.  Drive  out 


RACKHOUSE  289 

some  day,  drive  along  what  we  call  the  Trumbull 
Pike,  and  you'll  find  the  wreckage  of  the  killer. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  Ruth,  that  that  fluke  has 
made  me  into  a  brute  that  nothing  can  stop.  See 
my  fist;  look  at  my  arm.  Sledge  hammer  and 
handle.  It's  all  I  can  do  to  keep  from  crashing  all 
the  doors  and  all  the  locks  I've  raised  between  you 
and  me  and  taking  you  dead  or  alive  simply  be 
cause  I  want  you,  and  what  I  want  I've  got  to 
have." 

Ruth  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  not 
softly,  but  with  a  freedom  that  sent  the  pealing 
music  tumbling,  rolling,  rippling  down  the  hill. 
Roddy  glared  at  her.  His  jaw  set,  his  face  turned 
white,  and  he  half  arose  from  his  knees  with  the 
lithe  movement  of  a  terrier.  She  put  out  her 
hand  and  lightly  pushed  him  back. 

"Stay  there,"  she  commanded,  coolly;  but 
under  her  apparent  calm  a  furnace  was  burning. 
"Roddy,"  she  said,  "there's  just  one  thing  a  woman 
resents  in  her  lover  beyond  all  other  stupidities, 
and  that  is  the  assumption  that  she  isn't  flesh  and 
bone.  With  you  men,  it's  always  you,  you,  you — 
what  you  think,  what  you  feel,  what  you  believe. 
We  women,  why  we  are  supposed  to  feel  and  be 
lieve  only  what  you  think  we  ought  to?  You  are 
the  arbiters — the  teachers — the  gas  meters  of  all 
the  elemental  emotions — like — like  mothers  with 
a  corner  on  horehound  candy." 

As  she  continued,  her  earnestness  and  excite 
ment  had  made  her  catch  her  breath  and  speak  in 
explosive  phrases.  Roddy  stared  at  her,  a  pa- 


29o  RACKHOUSE 

thetic  expression  of  bewilderment  overspreading 
the  cocksureness  of  the  Blackie  tradition. 

"Ruth,"  he  broke  in,  "what  on  earth  are  you 
driving  at?"  Neither  of  them  noticed  that  it  was 
no  brute  that  spoke,  but  the  Roddy  Norris  of  a 
familiar  lifetime. 

"Why,  I  mean  this!"  cried  Ruth,  "that  it's 
never  occurred  to  you  that  being  poor  or  a  thief 
or  a  killer  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  me — with 
what  /  feel."  Her  voice  almost  broke.  She 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  arms.  "I'm  your  girl.  Do 
you  get  that?  I'm  your  girl!" 

They  rose  to  their  feet  by  a  single  impulse  and 
stood  face  to  face,  eye  to  eye.  Roddy's  hands 
shot  out  and  caught  Ruth  by  the  elbows  in  a  firm 
hold.  She  placed  her  closed  fists  against  the  bare 
flesh  of  his  chest,  trying  to  steady  herself,  trying 
to  steady  her  gaze  and  her  quivering  body. 

"Ruth,"  whispered  Roddy,  "do  you  know  what 
you  said?  Did  you  mean  it  all?  Is  that  what 
you  meant  back  there  to-night  when  you  said, 
'Drinking  with  you,  Roddy?'  Think.  Was  it, 
Ruth?" 

"Yes,  Roddy." 

"Ruth,  don't  go  too  fast.  Think.  Do  you 
love  me — all  of  me — just  as  I  am?" 

She  smiled  whimsically  and  studied  his  tense 
face.  "You  first,  Roddy.  Do  you  love  me?" 

"Do  I  love  you,  Ruth?"  repeated  Roddy,  his 
hands  beginning  to  tremble.  "If  rocks  could  laugh 
this  hill  would  open  its  mouth  to  answer  you.  I 


RACKHOUSE  291 

love  you.  I've  always  loved  you.  You  are  my 
heart,  my  world  and  sea  and  stars.  Alone  I'm 
nothing — less  than  nothing — only  thirst  and  mis 
ery,  a  bruised  worm  crawling  to  the  sources  of 
compassion." 

The  smile  deepened  in  her  eyes  and  twisted  her 
lips  to  the  borderland  between  tears  and  laughter. 
She  freed  her  arms,  slipped  them  around  his  neck, 
clung  to  him,  drew  him  tighter  and  tighter.  She 
pressed  her  face  hard  against  his  shoulder. 
"Roddy!  Oh,  Roddy!  So  big.  So  strong.  Take 
me  with  you  where  you  go." 

"Always,"  he  whispered.  "Always,"  and  with 
the  word  his  limbs  began  to  quiver  in  the  ague  of 
the  oldest  and  most  inexplicable  of  all  buck  fevers. 
His  hands  fell  loose  and  helpless  at  his  sides, 
Ruth  looked  up,  and  suddenly  tears  gushed  from 
her  eyes,  poured  down  her  cheeks,  caught  in  the 
corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Ruth!"  cried  Roddv,  hoarsely.  "Don't  cry! 
Oh,  please  don't  cry!  Why?" 

"Let  me  cry,"  she  sobbed.  "Perhaps  I'll  wash 
my  face  clean  enough  for  you  to  kiss  it." 

With  that  his  strength  swept  back  into  him. 
He  caught  her  up,  crushed  his  lips  against  her 
mouth,  kissed  her  hair  and  eyes  and  throat,  and 
then  threw  back  his  head  and  sent  a  single  loud 
shout  ringing  across  the  silence  of  the  gray  dawn. 

"Hush,  Roddv!"  gasped  Ruth.  She  broke 
away  from  him,  took  his  hand,  and  led  him  down 
the  hill,  through  valley  and  byways,  over  fences, 
across  lawns  and  meadow,  through  hedges  and 


292  RACKHOUSE 

along  the  curving  road  to  the  shrubberies  of  the 
Ardsley  cottage  on  the  North  Shore.  She  dragged 
him,  protesting  in  whispers,  into  the  house, 
knocked  on  a  door,  and  called  to  her  mother. 

"Mother  dear,  are  you  awake?" 

"I  am  now,"  answered  Mrs.  Ardsley,  sleepily. 
"What  is  it,  Ruth?" 

"Only  to  tell  you  not  to  be  frightened  if  you 
hear  some  one  tramping  around  the  guest  room. 
I've  brought  Roddy  Norris  home." 

Roddy  awoke  to  find  Bronk  in  the  room. 
"Where  did  you  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"Miss  Ardsley  phoned  at  six  o'clock  this  morn 
ing,  sir." 

Norris  lay  on  the  bed  for  some  time,  watching 
his  servant.  Something  seemed  to  have  happened 
to  Bronk.  Never  had  he  looked  more  spruce, 
more  on  the  tiptoe  of  expert  service,  or  more 
smugly  contented  in  the  performance  of  duty.  He 
prepared  fresh  linen,  and  Roddy  recognized  it  as 
of  the  best  he  possessed.  He  laid  out  three  suits 
and  a  veritable  sheaf  of  ties,  scarfs,  and  socks, 
separating  them  to  facilitate  a  choice. 

"Whenever  you're  ready,  sir." 

Norris  did  not  rise  at  once.  "Bronk,"  he  asked, 
"has  anyone  been  talking  to  you?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Bronk.  "Miss  Ardsley 
phoned  that  I  was  to  be  here  by  nine  and  to  bring 
a  full  change  of  clothes.  That  was  all." 

Master  and  servant  exchanged  a  long,  steady 
look  such  as  had  not  passed  between  them  since 
the  morning  of  Bronk's  enlistment  under  the 


RACKHOUSE  293 

segis  of  Rackhouse  Incorporated — since  the  mo 
ment  when  his  sixth  sense  had  given  him  the 
astounding  suspicion  that  the  gentleman  had  gone 
out  of  Capt.  Roderic  Norris.  The  same  miracu 
lous  intuition  now  told  him  that  his  gentleman  was 
back  again,  somewhat  grown,  somewhat  scarred, 
and  scandalously  bruised  on  this  particular  lovely 
morning,  but  nevertheless  whole  once  more  in 
body  and  soul.  He  did  not  stop  to  puzzle  things 
out,  nor  could  he  have  expressed  in  words  the 
subtle  change  in  his  own  demeanor.  He  only  knew 
that  Roderic  Norris  and  the  world  were  smiling 
again. 

"Bronk,"  said  Norris,  "you  are  more  than  you 
know,  you  are  more  than  a  highly  perfected  mech 
anism — you  are  a  wonderful  man." 

Bronk  bent  at  the  hips.  "I  thank  you,  sir," 
he  said,  quite  gravely.  "I  take  it  that  I  return 
to  the  old  pay,  sir.  I  would  prefer  it." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  turned  and 
left  the  room.  Norris  continued  to  lie  still,  his 
lips  half  smiling,  his  brows  drawn  in  quizzical 
concentration.  Did  Bronk,  too,  have  a  conscious 
soul?  Was  he  washing  it — taking  ablution  in 
sacrifice?  Abandoning  the  problem,  he  sprang 
from  the  bed,  bathed,  shaved  gingerly,  cleansed 
the  bruises  on  his  body  and  the  lacerations  on  his 
arms  and  neck,  dressed,  and  went  down  to  Ruth 
and  her  mother  looking  like  a  damaged  Greek  god. 

On  an  evening  of  the  week  after  the  next  the 
same  strange  group  which  attended  the  opening 
of  this  chronicle  was  gathered  in  Capt.  Roderic 


294  RACKHOUSE 

Norris's  rooms  at  the  Royal.  Rockman  was 
there,  and  Page,  Cullom,  Bronk,  Norris  himself, 
and  Miss  Ruth  Ardsiey.  In  addition  to  these, 
Jimmie  and  Millie  were  of  the  party  and  actually 
seemed  to  be  at  home,  the  girl  apathetic,  yet 
apparently  content  under  the  protection  of  the  ex- 
sergeant  and  of  the  old  man,  himself  serenely 
conscious  of  a  million  dollars  in  the  bank  and  a 
brand-new  suit  of  tailor-made  clothes. 

"And  that's  all,"  Norris  was  saying.  "It's  been 
a  long  road,  but  I've  tried  to  show  you  every  step 
of  the  way  I've  traveled.  The  strangest  part  of 
the  story  is  that  I  regret  nothing.  Thief,  miser, 
traitor  to  Dick — I  can  turn  red,  feel  a  sort  of 
shriveling  and  cringing  away  inside,  but  I  can't 
regret.  I've  forgotten  how.  Something  has 
grown  up  in  me  that  says  a  man's  fight  is 
always  ahead — something  that  can't  stop  to  turn 
back." 

Jimmie  drew  out  the  makings  of  a  cigarette. 
"Doesn't  that  tell  you  anything?"  he  asked,  his 
deep-set  eyes  shooting  a  glance  at  Norris's  face. 
"You  never  could,  my  boy.  You  never  could 
turn  back." 

Roddy's  eyes  took  on  a  look  of  intense  abstrac 
tion.  "I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  a  fluke,  a  trifling,  unpremedi 
tated  happening " 

Dick  leaped  to  his  feet.  "None  of  that!"  he 
shouted,  excitedly.  "Fluke  be  damned.  You  have 
been  Roddy  Norris  from  the  day  you  were  born 
and  you  will  be  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  You've 


RACKHOUSE  295 

been  grappled  into  the  hearts  of  your  friends  with 
the  hooks  you  put  there  yourself,  old  scout,  hooks 
that  haven't  changed,  that  couldn't  change,  that 
never  will  change.  What's  in  you  was  in  you ;  and 
what  a  friend  is,  that's  what  you've  got  to  love  or 
shrivel  up  yourself.  Does  anyone  here  feel 
shriveled?" 

"I  do,"  said  Rockman,  quietly,  but  in  a  tone  that 
commanded  attention.  "Of  all  of  us  here,  I  feel 
the  meanest ;  I  have  the  most  to  regret.  I've  stuck 
to  my  club  window  on  life  and  to  a  long  line  of 
ancient  principles.  Liquid  gold,  for  instance, 
reached  for  me  in  more  ways  than  one,  but  couldn't 
touch  me.  I  felt  a  bit  noble,  and  while  I  was 
feeling  noble  I  forgot  Roddy,  and  he's  left  me 
so  far  behind  that  I'm  making  this  blind  jump 
in  the  wild  hope  of  catching  up — of  laying  hands 
on  the  tailboard  of  Dick's  band  wagon  of  friend 
ship  and  climbing  aboard  again.  A  club  window 
on  life  isn't  enough.  To  know  you're  alive,  you 
must  bleed  blood." 

"That's  true,"  said  Jimmie,  quick  witted  and 
tactful,  anticipating  an  awkward  pause.  "You 
can't  lay  your  hand  on  the  pulse  of  the  world 
through  glass.  'Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go/ 
is  the  tenderest  and  strongest  of  all  the  slogans 
of  salvation." 

Upon  those  words  the  pause  came,  but  there 
was  no  awkwardness  in  it.  It  was  Norris  who 
broke  the  silence  with  a  change  of  subject.  "What 
about  Rackhouse  Incorporated,  Jimmie?"  he 
asked. 


296  RACKHOUSE 

"Well,"  countered  the  old  man,  "what  about 
it?" 

"I'd  like  to  get  out,"  replied  Norris,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  "clean  up,  wash  my  hands. 
How  do  you  feel?" 

Jimmie  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  drew  erect. 
For  a  moment  he  brought  to  mind  the  image  of  a 
lamppost  in  which  he  had  first  dawned  on  the 
Black  Mask's  consciousness,  but  presently  his 
deep-set  eyes,  beetling  brows,  and,  above  all,  his 
belligerent  parrot  beak  of  a  nose  dominated  every 
other  impression  and  establishd  the  suggstion  of 
a  pillar  of  strength. 

"Rackhouse  Incorporated,"  he  began,  a  gleam 
of  anger  in  his  eyes,  "isn't  the  tar  baby  of  your 
short-horned  mind's  conception,  sir.  It  may  be 
built  of  pitch,  but  it's  built  big.  What  you  and  I 
put  into  it  it's  given  back  fourfold,  not  in  money 
— though  that  counts — but  in  brawn,  muscle,  and 
the  fiber  of  the  fighting  soul.  It  found  you  an 
odorous  miser  and  made  you  into  a  man.  It 
caught  up  a  money  lender,  feeding  on  the  crumbs 
of  poverty  and  imposture,  and  forged  him  into  a 
plowshare  and  a  sword." 

"Whoo-ee!"  exploded  Dick,  in  surprise  and 
admiration. 

Jimmie  ignored  the  interruption.  "Just  as  long," 
he  continued,  "as  brains  can  keep  ahead  of  an 
ineffective  law  and  money  mortify  the  limbs  of 
government,  Rackhouse  Incorporated  will  con 
tinue  to  buy  all  there  is  and  fling  it  where  it  will 
do  the  most  good.  Rackhouse  is  an  evil,  sir, 


RACKHOUSE  297 

fcut  a  great  evil.  Ha  I  Watch  it  grow  until  it 
cures  itself !  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  young 
folks  that  the  lawbreaker  is  the  gyroscope  of  all 
sound  legislation?  Think  it  out." 

Norris  arose,  stepped  swiftly  toward  his  part 
ner,  and  seized  his  hand.  "Once  more,  Jimmie," 
he  said,  "once  more  you've  drilled  a  hole  in  my 
wooden  head  and  driven  in  a  stick  of  your  own 
wisdom.  I'm  a  learner,  Jimmie.  Please  tell  me 
I'm  at  least  that." 

"Your  brain  is  always  primed  to  action,  son," 
said  the  old  man,  turning  twinkling,  affectionate 
eyes  on  his  youthful  friend,  "but  it  lacks  the  de 
ductive  faculty.  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  marry 
Miss  Ardsley.  You're  the  kind  that  the  stronger 
you  get  the  more  you'll  need  a  nurse." 

"Jimmie,"  said  Ruth,  "if  you  ever  call  me  Miss 
Ardsley  again  I'll  begin  calling  you  Mr. — Mr. — " 
She  looked  in  vain  for  prompting  from  Roddy, 
Dick,  or  Cullom. 

It  was  Jimmie  who  helped  her  out.  "Rack- 
house,  Ruth,"  he  said,  quietly.  "James  Hamil 
ton  Rackhouse,  A.B.,  M.A.,  Ph.D.,  and — and  king 
of  bootleggers.  Quite  a  long  road.  Well,  I  must 
be  going." 

"No  you  don't,"  said  Roddy,  quickly.  "This 
meeting  isn't  adjourned.  It  can't  adjourn  here. 
I've  got  a  couple  of  cars  waiting  downstairs  and  I 
want  you  all  to  come  with  me — the  whole  kit  and 
boodle  of  you.  Lock  up  after  us,  Bronk,  and 
trail  along." 

As  the  party  made  its  way  through  the  hall, 


298  RACKHOUSE 

Millie  spoke  for  the  first  time,  and  to  Shandy  Cul- 
lom's  ear  alone.  "Some  bull  slinger,  that  Blackie 
boy;  and  Jimmie,  too.  Who'd  'a'  thought  it?  My 
head's  kind  of  groggy.  Overproof  hooch,  I 
call  it." 

"Ye-ah,"  agreed  Shandy,  absently  pinching  her 
sharp  elbow.  "They  get  that  way  sometimes. 
It's  Cap's  room  back  there  that  does  it  to  'em. 
You'd  ought  to  of  heard  the  last  spiel  we  had 
there.  All  about  heroes  and  flukes  and  monkeys 
and  sources  of  compassion  and  hand  organs  and 
mystery  recipes.  More  kinds  of  lip  dope  than  you 
ever  knew  there  was.  You're  right.  Millie, 
speakin'  as  one  simp  to  another,  I'll  say  it  sure 
makes  your  head  feel  like  a  pudding." 

Roddy,  accompanied  by  Ruth,  Rockman,  and 
Dick  in  the  first  car,  let  the  way.  They  made  for 
Long  Island  across  the  Queensboro  Bridge.  When 
they  approached  the  former  Behren  estate  and 
turned  in  at  the  park  gates,  Ruth  started,  leaned 
toward  her  companion,  and  whispered:  "No, 
Roddy.  Stop.  I  never  want  to  see  that  beast 
again." 

"My  dear,"  said  Norris,  quickly,  "what  sort 
of  a.  blockhead  do  you  take  me  for?  Tempest 
is  gone.  I  let  him  break  his  lease  two  weeks  ago. 
You  won't  know  the  house  for  the  same  place." 

It  was  true.  The  stately  house,  spread  like  a 
resplendent  crown  upon  and  amid  the  everlasting 
hills,  seemed  to  welcome  them  with  a  peaceful, 
smiling  dignity  foreign  to  Storm  Tempest,  his 
guests,  and  all  their  frenzied  ways.  Its  doors  and 


RACKHOUSE  299 

windows  were  wide  open,  and,  entering  them,  one 
found  the  atmosphere  of  a  vast  home  club,  spa 
cious,  comfortably  appointed,  imposing  its  own 
rules  of  conduct  through  the  ancient  check  of  en 
vironment.  A  space  had  been  reserved  for  dancing 
in  the  vast  reception  room,  but  beyond  it  were 
groups  of  easy  chairs  clustered  around  smoking 
and  card  tables,  and  beyond  those,  two  billiard 
tables,  and  still  beyond,  facing  the  great,  open  fire 
place,  a  bay  of  cushioned  lounging  seats,  voicing  a 
silent  invitation  to  congregation,  discussion,  yarns, 
and  reminiscence. 

Other  rooms  were  equipped  in  a  manner  fitting 
to  their  location  and  special  uses,  and  as  his  party 
passed  from  one  to  another  of  them,  wondering 
and  exclaiming,  Roddy,  with  Ruth  at  his  side, 
hung  back  and  approached  an  open  window  which 
disclosed  a  ravishing  view  of  lawn,  hill,  dale,  and 
sparkling  water. 

"Jump  me  up,  Roddy." 

He  caught  her  by  the  elbows  and  lifted  her  to  a 
seat  on  the  wide  sill.  She  steadied  herself  by  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  looked  about  the  room,  and 
then  out  on  the  silent,  sun-washed  landscape. 

"How  quiet!"  she  said,  presently.  "How  won 
derfully  still  and  restful !  Roddy,  I  haven't  asked 
you  a  single  question,  not  one.  It's  for  the 
wounded,  isn't  it?" 

"The  wounded — all  kinds  of  wounded,"  said 
Norris,  his  eyes  fixed  afar.  "Who  lives  who 
hasn't  bled,  Ruth?  Rocksie  and  Jimmie  were 
right.  You  can't  feel  the  pulse  of  the  world — 


300  RACKHOUSE 

anybody's  pulse — through  glass.  Take  my  hand, 
Ruth.  Lay  your  fingers  so.  I'm  naked  to-day, 
floundering  in  the  rivers  of  your  mercy." 

She  caught  up  his  hand  and  laid  it  against  her 
warm  cheek.  "Oh,  Roddy!"  she  gasped  and 
lifted  her  head  suddenly  to  see  Dick  entering  the 
room,  staring  at  Norris  as  though  he  stood  alone, 
as  though  she  were  not  there. 

"What  is  it,  Dick?"  she  asked. 

"Come,  Ruth,"  said  Dick,  his  eyes  still  fastened 
on  Roddy.  "There's  something  he  hasn't  shown 
you." 

Leaving  Norris  sunk  in  abstraction  beside  the 
open  window,  she  followed  Dick  into  the  main  en 
trance  hall.  At  one  end  of  it  was  the  great  portal 
through  which  they  had  first  entered;  at  the  other 
a  noble  winged  staircase  rose  in  two  white  converg 
ing  flights  to  the  floor  above.  Between  the  massively 
balustered  rising  curves  was  a  high,  sheer  panel  of 
the  same  marble  as  the  stairway,  and  into  it  had 
been  sunk  a  small  tablet  of  bronze,  newly  engraved. 
Ruth  drew  near  to  it  and  read  the  inscription: 

I,  Roderic  Norris,  confess  to  the  theft  of 
an  idea;  to  the  pilfering  of  six  thousand  dol 
lars  of  money  contributed  to  the  wounded 
and  to  robbing  my  friend,  Lieutenant 
Richard  Page,  of  his  reputation,  but  not  of 
his  honor.  In  partial  retribution  this  HOL- 
LIDAY  HOUSE  is  deeded  and  dedicated  to 
whom  it  may  concern. 

Ruth's  hands  flew  to  her  throat.  Pride,  love, 
and  pity  were  choking  her.  This  was  what  Roddy 


RACKHOUSE  301 

had  meant  when  he  said  he  was  naked  to-day, 
floundering  in  the  rivers  of  her  mercy !  She  turned 
to  look  for  him,  remembered  where  she  had  left 
him,  and  rushed  away  to  be  at  his  side. 

"Roddy,"  she  whispered,  laying  her  hand 
lightly  on  his  arm,  "I've  loved  you,  dear,  all  my 
life,  but  when  I  read — when  I  saw  where  you've 
written  yourself  in  bronze,  something  else — 
something  bigger — came  into  me.  It — it  fright 
ens  me,  darling.  Oh,  Roddy,  don't  be  too  perfect 
a  dream  man!  No  woman  can  stand  it!" 

A  smile  stole  into  the  corners  of  Norris's 
mouth  as  he  slipped  his  arm  around  her  shoulders 
and  drew  her  close  to  his  side,  but  his  eyes 
clung  to  the  peaceful  distances  beyond  the  open 
window. 

"Ruth,"  he  said,  presently,  "something  extraor 
dinary  has  happened  to  me  while  I  stood  here 
alone,  and  now  you've  come  to  be  a  part  of  it." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Ruth. 

"I  was  looking  backward  into  these  rooms  as 
they  were  on  that  ghastly  night  of  orgy  and  won 
dering  where  a  man  who  feels  his  strength  upon 
him  shall  set  his  feet  to-day.  Then  I  looked  out 
of  this  window,  and  the  strangest  feeling  came 
over  me,  a  hunger  to  climb  a  hill,  as  we  did,  and 
— well — to  drag  a  man's  load  of  people  along 
with  us.  This  country — my  country  and  yours ! 
Before  you  and  I  die,  Ruth,  I'd  like  to  stand  on 
another  hilltop  and  feel  the  right  to  shout  out 
something  that  you  haven't  heard  since  Sunday 
school." 


302  RACKHOUSE 

"Tell  me,"  said  Ruth,  lifting  her  head  to  gaze 
into  his  face. 

There  was  a  quizzical  look  in  his  far-flung 
eyes  as  he  quoted  the  patriot's  slogan,  "  'Mark 
ye  well  her  bulwarks,  consider  her  palaces;  that 
ye  may  tell  it  to  the  generation  following.'  ' 


THE  END 


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